The Right Path
by Tamnation
Summary: Phil's alive, but he's not waking up. When Clint's approached on the range late at night by a woman who promises that she can help, he doesn't have a choice. With SHIELD HQ transformed into a labyrinth of twisting tunnels and pitfalls, Clint's only companions are his memories of Phil and a bird he found along the way. But finding Phil is harder than he thought it would. C/C SLASH
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Right Path

Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson

Warnings: Some violence, non-graphic reference to torture and some swearing.

Word Count: 28,463

Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or the Labyrinth and anything you recognise isn't mine.

Authors notes: Written for the 2012 Marvel Big Bang on LJ. This started out as a Labyrinth fusion and it has since twisted beyond recognition. A big thanks to the mods at marvel bang for doing an awesome job, Sullacat for the amazing artwork/fanmix, and to everyone who cheered me on and put up with me going on about this fic.

Special thanks to Hazel_3017 and Archangelraphaelsdaughter for beta reading and making this story the best it possibly could be.

* * *

Clint's knuckles tightened on the grip of his bow as he tried to let the steady rhythm of repetition ease the frustration and worry that seemed to have sunk deep into his soul. The range was silent this late at night; the only sounds the heavy thuds of Clint's arrows meeting their targets dead centre.

Nock, draw, release. Nock, draw, release.

Over and over again.

It has been over a month (thirty-eight… no, thirty-nine days) since the worst day of Clint's life. Since the day when the entire world almost ended and he'd helped save it. High on the adrenaline from saving the world, Clint had been completely unprepared for the way Nat had pulled him aside, away from the others, to talk to him.

To tell him that Phil was dead.

He remembered the exact moment and how his stomach had dropped and his vision blurred; the way that he just couldn't seem to draw breath into his body. A sickeningly hollow feeling that Clint had been all too familiar with before he'd joined SHIELD had hit him hard. He'd saved the world, only to find that his own had ended, and wasn't that just unfair?

He didn't remember much between that moment and when Stark called him the next day. He didn't even remember the conversation, but essentially Fury was a lying bastard. And Phil…

Phil was alive.

But it had been thirty-nine days and Clint still hadn't seen him. He'd tried, God knew, he'd tried. He'd ranted and raved at Fury for hours. He'd been listed as Phil's medical proxy for years and while their marriage wasn't common knowledge, Fury had organised Phil's stag night. But Fury had Phil locked down in quarantine so tight that he'd even blocked off the air ducts. Apparently, Fury was a paranoid bastard when dealing with unknown magic and he wasn't willing to risk his assets, marital status and medical proxies be damned. Not even Natasha could get in, and so Clint was stuck on the outside, when all he really wanted was to be in there, curled up next to Phil until he woke up.

And Phil would wake eventually. He had to.

Fury had told Clint that there had been no change, and that while the giant hole in his chest was slowly pulling together, there was still no sign of Phil waking up. There was no way of telling what damage Loki's staff had done to him, or if there would be any magical side effects. They didn't even know if he would still be the same Phil that Clint loved when he woke up. Fury sounded almost apologetic with each update, but Clint didn't really wanted to hear it.

Clint wanted to scream in frustration, but he knew his range time was being monitored in case he decided 'to do something stupid' and he refused to give Fury the satisfaction of seeing him break. Instead, he just nocked his bow, drew the arrow back, and released.

He'd worked himself back into the easy rhythm of repetition when suddenly the air behind him distorted unnaturally, twisting slightly as a figure seemed to shimmer into existence. Clint didn't even hesitate. He'd trained a new arrow at the spot, almost before he'd even turned to look. He blinked as his eyes took in his arrow's new target. There was a woman standing there, tall and confident and entirely too buxom as her breasts all but fell out of her green dress. Clint couldn't help but stare, because really, this woman was gorgeous and she'd just appeared out of nowhere in the middle of his shooting range. She smiled pleasantly and a warm glow seemed to permeate the air around her. Slowly, Clint lowered his bow.

"Who are you?" he asked, frowning at his lowered arm. This was SHIELD, with its government trained spies and super assassins; people shouldn't be able to just appear, even leaving aside the fact that they were currently on a giant aircraft that was thousands of miles above sea level. At least it had been the last time Clint checked. For that matter, shouldn't there be alarms going off by now? This range was supposed to be monitored at all times. The whole situation was making Clint feel uneasy.

"Who I am doesn't matter. I've come here to help you, little hawk," the woman responded, her voice light and musical, and Clint's brow furrowed further as his mind went disturbingly blank. There was something wrong here. Clint knew there was something he should be doing, but he couldn't remember.

"Help me?"

"Well, you and poor Agent Coulson."

Clint couldn't help the way that his body jerked back at the mention of Phil. Who the hell was this woman, and how did she know about him and Phil? It was like shaking off a haze, and Clint brought his bow back up, alert once more. The woman smirked at him, seemingly more amused than threatened by Clint's bow.

"It's quite the tale on Asgard. One prince bringing his supposedly dead little brother back from Midgard in chains. Quite the scandal," she giggled girlishly. "Thor of course commissioned the king's own bards to tell the tale of the great warriors of Midgard. He was very impressed by the your strength and courage, despite your mortality."

Clint said nothing, his jaw clenched tightly. He'd spoken to Thor often since he'd returned to Earth a few weeks ago. The blonde man kept trying to make amends for Loki's actions, but Clint had refused his offer of retribution. He knew better than most that a man should not be held accountable for the acts of his brother.

Instead he'd asked Thor about his home world. Thor had told him tales of his adventures with Sif and the warriors three. Clint had heard about the tournaments of Thor's youth, mighty feasts that lasted for days and what had really been going on in New Mexico. And he'd learnt that while magic itself was a neutral force, many of those that sought to wield it, did so to further their own mischievous or nefarious plans.

"Of course I just had to come see for myself. Such brave soldiers, such tragedy." She sighed dramatically for effect, pushing her hair over her shoulder with a practiced flounce. "I've been watching you, little hawk. You're the most tragic of them all. Well you and Agent Coulson."

"Leave him out of this." Clint didn't know what _this_ was, but whatever it was, he didn't want Phil anywhere near it.

"I'm afraid I can't do that; he has everything to do with _this_. Such a brave man, it'd be a terrible shame if he never woke up again." The woman paused, taking in Clint's defensive stance with an amused glance. "Don't tell me you thought the damage done by Loki's staff was merely physical."

"What are you talking about?" he growled out, his teeth gritted as he forced himself to keep his weapon trained on the woman and his mind firmly focused on Phil. He had thought Phil would be fine. God, even with all the crazy things that had happened, he hadn't really considered that there was more to Phil's injuries than the physical hole in his chest. Clint had been too busy focusing on how lucky Phil had been that the staff had missed his heart.

"You did!" the woman laughed, and Clint felt his grip loosen. "Poor Agent Coulson, lying all alone in that quarantine bay, an empty husk that will slowly wither and die. He won't wake. He'll never wake. Your pathetic human science may be able to knit together flesh and bone, but it can't mend what's beyond your meagre understanding. No matter how you beg and plead, Phil Coulson will never wake."

Clint's hands shook violently and the bow in his hand clattered to the floor. The woman moved forward and that warm sensation crept over him again. Slowly, she reached out a hand to cup his cheek. Her hand was cold, but his body still leaned into it. She smiled. "Do not worry. I'm here to help you, little hawk."

"How?" He hated the way his voice sounded; pathetic and weak, but he couldn't seem to draw forth his usual sarcasm.

"Loki's staff dislodged Agent Coulson's soul. He's trapped in a place of magic, between this realm and the next."

"Can you bring him back?"

The woman smiled gently, but her eyes were cold as she answered. "It is beyond my power to return his soul to his body, but I can take you there. It must be your task to find his soul and bring it back to this realm."

"Why are you helping me?" Clint demanded. There was an uneasy feeling that had sunk into his gut, warring with a growing sense of hope. He shouldn't trust her, he knew. He _didn't_ trust her, not that it really mattered. This was Phil and if Clint had to leave this world behind; he would. There was nothing that he wouldn't do to get his husband back.

"What can I say? I'm a sucker for a love story," said the woman, the glint in her cold eyes making Clint increasingly uneasy.

"So, what now?" he asked, trying to draw up his confidence. She smirked at him and drew back a little. Her right hand came up to her face and she blew Clint a kiss. A pale dust flew off her palm and into Clint's face. He coughed and spluttered, shocked at the sudden action, as the woman laughed.

"Now little hawk, you find the heart of SHIELD."

When he finally stopped coughing, the woman was gone and Clint was still in the range. Somehow, though, he knew that it wasn't the same. He glanced around for his bow, but it seemed to have vanished along with his arrows. He frowned slightly as he shook his head clear of the daze that had settled over him with the arrival of the strange woman. He never should have dropped his bow. Clint wasn't sure if she had been lying or not, but there was definitely something… off about her.

It was too late now.

Squaring his shoulders, he moved towards the door. He didn't allow himself to dwell on the hope she'd promised him, but focused on her final words instead.

He'd find the heart of SHIELD, no matter what it took.

For Phil.


	2. Chapter 2

The Right Path: Part 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing recognisable

~cc~ Denotes the shift between reality and dreams/flashbacks

* * *

Clint frowned as he stepped through the door and left the range behind. At first glance, it seemed that he was still at HQ, surrounded by the same nondescript white walls that he'd seen most days for the past fifteen years. However, the corridor before him, that he _knew_ was normally 65.6 feet from one end to the other, now seemed almost impossibly long, its colour lacking a sense of vibrancy; like elastic stretched to the point of breaking. Either the powder she'd blown in his face was causing some weird drug trip, or he wasn't in Kansas anymore. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the screen: no signal. Clint sighed and really hoped this wasn't one of those decisions he would end up regretting later. Not that he had been given much choice.

He was here now—wherever here was—and he'd just have to make the best of it. He turned his head to look down the corridor, trying to see any sign that might suggest which way he should go. Each end was a far distant blur, and Clint knew that he had to make the right choice now.

_Left or right?_

He hesitated for a brief moment before he made his decision. When Clint had joined SHIELD, he'd already had a healthy level of paranoia and a liking for hiding away in small places where no one would think to look for him. His years as an agent had only heightened his appreciation of well-planned escape routes, so he'd taken the time to map out every corridor, storage closet, and ventilation access point in case of all possible emergencies. Phil had shaken his head every time he'd found Clint climbing down out of the vents, or frowned disapprovingly after he'd had to handle the complaints from startled junior agents, but Clint liked to think he'd seen Phil's amusement hidden beneath the professionalism that was Agent Coulson. In the end, he knew SHIELD HQ better than anyone, except for maybe Phil, and Fury himself.

Clint nodded to himself, turned right and started walking.

The corridor was silent; the only noise was the sound of his steps on the tiled floor. While the silence was not entirely unfamiliar from other all-nighters on the range, there seemed to be something more ominous about it; a decidedly creepier undertone that hung in the air. He didn't know if he was being watched or if this was all some bizarre trick, but Clint was determined to stay alert, conscious of every little detail in case he missed something vital.

Half an hour later, and he had to keep dragging his thoughts back into focus.

After an hour of putting one foot in front of the other, he finally gave up the fight against his wandering mind and let his thoughts drift towards Phil, as they so often did.

~cc~

The last time he'd seen Phil had been at that godforsaken research facility in the Mojave Desert, before everything had gone to hell. There hadn't been even a hint of what was about to happen. As far as Clint had been concerned, it should have been a cakewalk. Babysitting scientists was fairly boring, and while Clint wasn't dumb, he sure as hell wasn't an astrophysicist. On the upside, no one had been shooting at him, and Phil had been assigned to the same facility. It was the closest thing Clint had had to a holiday in years.

Unsurprisingly, Phil was in his makeshift office when Clint managed to get away for lunch, but he wasn't alone. Clint didn't recognise the junior agent that was waving his hands around enthusiastically, but he recognised the tense set of Phil's shoulders. Anyone else looking in would simply have seen Phil's usual bland expression, the same infallible sense of calm that had led to Phil's office being treated as a revolving door for SHIELD agents with issues ranging from trivial paperwork to Fury bitch-fests.

Clint knew better. He could see the slight downwards slope of Phil's mouth and the way that every now and then his fingers would twitch towards the mess of paperwork that the junior agent had placed on Phil's desk; a complete contrast to Phil's neat and orderly stacks. This agent was annoying Phil. Clint leaned in the doorway and raised a questioning eyebrow when Phil met his gaze.

"It's unprofessional! How is anyone supposed to work under these conditions? I was halfway through my report!"

"Agent Simmons, it is SHIELD's belief that all agents must be ready and prepared for action at all times…" Phil started, but was interrupted by the ranting agent.

"Field conditions and simulated drills are one thing, but I cannot be expected to complete tasks while existing in a state of constant vigilance," the man whined, and Clint had to wonder how he'd gotten through SHIELD's basic training. But then again, he'd always thought that the basic training wasn't nearly as comprehensive as it should have been. When he was stuck on base for any length of time, he usually made it his mission to improve the situational awareness and reaction times of junior agents.

Or at least that had been the reasoning he'd given when Phil had asked why he'd been terrorising the junior agents.

Obviously, he'd missed 'Agent Simmons', something that he planned to rectify at a later stage.

The fact that Clint had been standing there for at least five minutes while the junior agent carried on, and the agent was still unaware of his presence, only emphasised the point.

A smirk crept across his face as an idea formed, and he ignored Phil's frown and the minute shake of his head. He reached up a hand and ran his fingers through his hair to give it a dishevelled look before he drew out his side arm.

"Agent Coulson! Potential code nine bravo sixty-five alpha." He kept his face carefully blank and his tone as urgent as he could manage as the junior agent startled badly. Clint rounded on him.

"Agent, why are you still here? All agents with clearance below level six are relocating outside the contamination zone. You were supposed to report to sector seven twenty minutes ago."

"I… ah…" The agent scrambled to his feet, clutching his disorganised paperwork to his chest.

"You'd better get going. Wouldn't want this going in your file, would we, Agent?"

"No, sir. Sorry, sir." The man literally fled from the room, the terrified expression on his face making Clint laugh.

"That was uncalled for, Agent Barton." Phil's tone was disapproving, but Clint could see Phil's amusement hidden behind his Agent Coulson persona.

"I'm pretty sure it was, sir." Clint smiled.

"Nine bravo sixty-five alpha is the code for the SHIELD bake sale." Clint's smile grew wider, and Phil raised an eyebrow. "Which isn't until September."

"I'm aware of that, boss. I'm fairly certain you marked the bake sale on my calendar yourself."

"Did you want something, Agent Barton?"

"Lunch? I thought I should make sure that my favourite handler didn't pass out from low blood sugar before the end of the day. It's a crucial mission."

This time Phil allowed himself a smile. Clint felt a small surge of warmth flow through him. Phil's smiles were the best, and he saved them all for Clint. "I suppose I should eat something. Maybe distract you from tormenting the junior agents for half an hour."

"I'm not tormenting them. It's strategic awareness and urban guerrilla tactics 101. I even grade them at the end of it." Clint left out the fact that the grades were normally delivered via arrow. Phil didn't need to know that the arrows' trajectories normally passed mere inches away from various body parts of the unsuspecting agents.

"I'm sure that is a great source of comfort to the psych department. They've been complaining about the number of Hawkeye related cases again," Phil said with wry amusement as he shrugged on his jacket and turned off his computer monitor.

"They love me, really," Clint said with a smirk.

"They should. You keep them safe from Fury's annual budget cuts if nothing else," Phil agreed with a perfectly straight face and Clint laughed in response.

"Come on, sir, cafeteria food waits for no agent."

SHIELD cafeterias may not have been the most romantic of locations, but it worked for them. They sat at an isolated table in the back corner and Phil listened patiently as Clint told him about his day—watched a glowing blue cube, listened to Selvig toss around words like particle separator and atom accelerator, watched the cube some more—which had been pretty much exactly the same as they had been for the last two weeks. Phil's knee bumped reassuringly against his under the table and Clint entwined his right hand into Phil's left, the warm metal of Phil's ring a solid reminder that Clint was possibly the luckiest man alive.

Twelve hours later, Phil had been pulling together the Avengers and Clint had been Loki's puppet, trapped in his own mind. He'd found out later that Agent Simmons hadn't made it out of the collapsing base. But that one moment in the cafeteria before it had all hit the fan had been as close to perfect as Clint was ever likely to get.

~cc~

A scraping noise against the tiles drew his attention back to the present and into sharp focus. He couldn't tell exactly how long he'd been walking, but his body was starting to protest against the strain of his taxed muscles. The scrape sounded again from somewhere behind him, but when Clint turned to look, the corridor was still deserted, just as it had been when he'd first entered it. The hairs on the back of his neck were raised though, and there was a growing sensation of being watched that he just couldn't shake.

He kept going.

It was another fifteen minutes before the noise came again, and it had Clint reaching for the knife that he hoped was still in his boot. Whatever the noise was, it was getting closer, and Clint held back a sigh of relief as his fingers curled around the familiar hilt.

Click, click, scrape. Click, click, scrape.

Clint turned, knife at the ready, but there was no ominous threat to attack. In fact, it took him a moment to find the source of the noise, because really, he hadn't expected it to be something so small.

It was a bird: a plain, ordinary bird with brown feathers. No one would have paid any attention to it in a park or playground, but there, in the lifeless corridors of SHIELD HQ, it definitely stood out. Clint watched it warily, trying to assess if it was a threat or some sort of trick. The bird looked back at him, holding Clint's gaze for a moment before it simply continued hopping closer. Clint sidestepped around the bird with a frown. It looked harmless enough, he supposed, but then, really, so did Bruce.

It tilted its head as it hopped past him, and Clint was sure that if it had been able to, it would have been rolling its eyes. Great. Now there was random wildlife mocking him. It didn't explode though, and it didn't change shape or turn green or sprout rows of nasty, pointy teeth. It didn't even try to peck Clint. And as it continued to hop down the corridor, Clint started to feel a tad bit sheepish.

It stopped further ahead and gave a cheerful little tweet as it looked back at him. Clint frowned again and didn't move. The bird tweeted again, slightly more urgent, and its head gave a short, jerky movement that only added to Clint's wariness.

"You want me to follow you? Yeah, no buddy, I don't think so," Clint scoffed, and his voice echoed loudly through the silent corridors. The bird let out a strangled sound of frustration and started hopping back towards Clint. It hopped straight towards him this time, and Clint kicked out with his left foot when it got closer. The bird squawked indignantly and hopped back out of range, its wings raised instinctively.

"Shoo," Clint said, waving a vague 'get lost' gesture at the bird. The bird just gave him that odd look, one that seemed to almost drip with amused disdain, but it gave up on Clint and hopped back in the other direction.

Clint watched it for a moment before he started walking again. The corridor had to end at some point, and Clint was not about to second-guess himself now because of a bird. It took him two minutes to realise the scrape of the birds talons on the floor wasn't getting further away.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw the bird a fair distance back, but definitely keeping pace with him. When Clint stopped, it stopped. Slowly, Clint took a step backwards, eyes watching the bird the entire time. The bird met Clint's gaze and waited until Clint had finished moving before it hopped forward.

Clint stared at it in silence, just waiting for it to do something. Clearly, it wasn't an ordinary bird. But it didn't move, and after a moment, the silliness of the situation hit Clint and he started to laugh. He was having a staring contest with a bird.

"Fine, fine. Do whatever you want," Clint said between bouts of laughter. When he started to walk again, the scraping noise followed him and he let it be.

He had more worrying problems to contend with, after all.

He'd been walking for hours now. The door to the archery range was a distant smudge behind him, and yet the end of the corridor didn't seem any closer than it had before he'd started. By now it'd be morning, and SHIELD Agents would normally be starting to arrive. He wondered if he was missing, if they had even noticed that he was no longer shooting arrows on the range. He hadn't exactly been Mr. Sociable lately. Frowning, he glanced behind him to where the bird was still hopping along after him, just out of range of Clint's feet.

There was a voice of doubt in the back of his mind that'd been growing louder and louder over the past hour. What if he'd taken the wrong turn? He could probably make his way around SHIELD HQ blindfolded and end up exactly where he wanted to be, but for all its appearances, he was beginning to understand that this place, wherever or whatever it was, _wasn't_ SHIELD. And maybe, just maybe, he'd been supposed to turn left. Maybe he'd wasted hours going the wrong way.

He walked faster, breaking into a jog half a minute later, his feet pounding along the polished tiles as the far wall remained stubbornly distant. Soon, Clint was flat out running and his heart was pounding heavily in his chest. He couldn't afford to be going the wrong way. This _had_ to be the right way.

"Damn it."

He was going the wrong way.

Clint stopped up short and stared. He looked ahead. Looked back. Looked ahead again. Even with his keen eyesight, he couldn't tell if one end was closer than the other. Both ends were still impossibly far away, and Clint couldn't hold in the yell of frustration that escaped his mouth. He kicked angrily at the nearest wall and let himself slump to the ground.

Clint had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

He heard chirping and turned his head to look at the source of the sound, his eyes landing on the bird. It chirped some more and hopped a little closer. Clint glared. "I bet you think this is funny, don't you?"

The bird tilted its head at him and gave him an odd look. It hopped along the opposite wall, chirruping and tweeting as it went before it quite literally hopped through the wall.

"Oh."

Clint scrambled to his feet as he stared at where the bird was standing a foot into what Clint had thought to be a solid wall. It wasn't, of course, but watching the bizarre sight before him, the wall still looked real to his eyes. Moving forward cautiously, he put his hands out wary of crashing into any of the walls in case they were actually solid.

The bird chirruped happily at him and Clint reached down cautiously to give it a light pat. The feathers were soft beneath his fingers and he could feel the perfectly ordinary beat of the bird's tiny heart. Clint allowed himself to relax a little and actually grinned.

"Now we're getting somewhere. You and me, buddy, we'll find Phil in no time."

The bird chirped its agreement and followed Clint as he headed deeper into the unknown.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3:

Disclaimer: I still don't own anything

~cc~ Denotes the switch between reality and dreams/flashbacks

* * *

Now that Clint had left the never-ending corridor behind, he'd found a new set of corridors that were equally baffling. The corridors twisted and turned illogically, making it that much harder to keep track of where he was. It was like someone had created a maze out of SHIELD's accounting department, and Clint was fast getting frustrated. He cursed as he hit yet another dead-end and had to backtrack.

The bird tweeted angrily at Clint when it suddenly had to weave between his feet as he spun around with no warning. He'd almost forgotten about the small creature that had decided he was interesting enough to follow. He'd assumed that it would just wander off again once it got bored, but it had kept following him, even when he'd started walking a tad bit too fast for the bird to keep up comfortably.

He paused for a moment and knelt down to look closer at the bird. It was a perfectly common sparrow, with its plain brown-grey feathers and no identifying marks. It chirped cheerily at Clint's attention and hopped a little closer so its feathers brushed against his fingers.

"Are you lonely, little bird? Is that why you're following me?" Clint asked out loud, and the bird nudged harder at his hand as if in agreement. Clint sighed and allowed his fingers to carefully trace over the small, feathered form. He imagined the small creature hopping alone through the empty tunnels for hours on end, never finding another living thing, and he shuddered.

"Well, if you're going to stick around, I'd better think of something to call you."

The bird looked at him with a surprisingly wary look, but remained in place. Clint had to think for a moment. He'd never had a pet before, not even as a kid, and he didn't have the first clue about what to name anything, much less a _bird_.

"Tweety?" he offered slowly, but the bird actually moved further away at that. Clint could almost feel a sense of disapproval emanating from the bird. "Fine, not Tweety. Umm, Bucky? Ow!"

Clint rubbed at his hand where the damned thing had pecked him. He'd only suggested it because Bucky was one of Clint's favourite characters in the Captain America comics. He'd read more of the comics than he'd admit to over the years, mostly because Phil could normally be counted on to have one or two stashed away somewhere on long missions. Phil loved almost all things Captain America, and Clint had wanted to see what had captured Phil's attention like that.

The bird was glaring at him now and Clint glared back.

"Well I have to call you something. I can't just keep calling you Bird," Clint grumbled, and watched, mouth agape, as the bird chirped and hopped a little closer to Clint in what appeared to be approval. Clint pressed a hand over his face and wondered if he was going insane. "Bird? Really? Fine. It's not like it makes a difference what I call you."

Bird chirped again and brushed against Clint's hand. He could feel Bird's frantic heartbeat beneath his fingers, and something about the contact was almost a soothing balm to Clint's frustration. Carefully, he curled his fingers underneath Bird's small frame and pulled him closer to his chest.

He stood cautiously and moved back down the hall, searching for a turnoff that didn't lead to a dead end. Bird's weight was comforting and Clint found himself talking to it out loud as a way to break up the monotony of the endless corridors.

He talked about the circus, about the way he'd been practicing on the trapeze, about how it had felt like flying when he'd let go. He rambled on about how sometimes, after a good show, Trickshot would take him back to his caravan and they'd celebrate over a couple of beers. He told Bird all about his bows; the new and flashy one SHIELD had equipped him with that had all the latest gadgets, and his old circus bow that he kept locked away under the bed at home. Mostly though, he told Bird about Phil.

Bird listened as Clint described the intense focus that Phil had whenever he was on a mission, the way his arms curled protectively around Clint as they watched Super Nanny reruns on rare nights off, and the way that Clint could always rely on Phil to have his back. He ranted about Phil's Captain America collection—and would it kill him to swoon over just one piece of Hawkeye merchandise?—but Clint loved the look that Phil got in his eyes when he found a collectible he didn't already have. And he told Bird about the first time they'd managed to get away from SHIELD for an actual date.

~cc~

They'd been planning their first 'official' date for months. It had been postponed four times due to some junior agents' incompetence, twice because Phil was apparently the only one capable of handling a B-16a, and _five times_ because Clint was—quite obviously—a reckless idiot and kept being confined to the medical department. Phil had refused to have their first date at SHIELD HQ, especially not with Clint hyped up on the good drugs.

Finally, they had made it out of headquarters and to a small Italian place down the street. They'd eaten there before, individually and occasionally together while finishing off a post-mission debriefing, but somehow this was different. Clint was inexplicably nervous when Phil asked for their usual table.

Clint slid into his chair, and as Phil's knees brushed against his under the table, a huge grin spread across his face. They were here, on a date together. Finally. Clint had been starting to despair that they'd never manage it. Phil gave Clint a small smile in return and placed his hand palm up on the table. Clint covered it with his own, and a warm, fuzzy feeling settled comfortably in his gut.

"I was beginning to think Fury would never give you a night off. I bet he's at headquarters right now, glaring at a I26-a and lamenting the loss of his 'one good eye' for an evening," Clint teased and Phil let out a tired sigh.

"Can we not talk about work tonight?"

Even as Clint nodded, he felt the brief stirrings of panic. Phil was a classy guy, with his designer suits and appreciation of classical music. Phil was the type of guy that got invited to fancy charity galas and fitted right in. He'd always seemed like the type of guy who liked art galleries and museums and those foreign artsy films that were all in subtitles. Not that Phil needed subtitles for most of them—the man seemed to speak at least a dozen different languages.

Clint wasn't classy.

Oh sure, he could put on an act if he needed to for a mission, but Clint felt out of place at those sort of swanky shindigs. He liked his jeans and his hoodies, and while he was learning some Russian from Nat and he'd learnt enough Spanish to get by from a couple of knife throwers back in his circus days; most of his non-English vocabulary consisted of words that weren't exactly appropriate in polite conversation.

Almost all of the time they'd ever spent together had been work related: stakeouts, work travel, debriefing sessions, and paperwork. Even on the occasional night where they'd gone out to a bar, they'd talked about SHIELD. What did they really have in common outside of work? What if Phil realised that he really didn't want anything to do with an ex-carny who owned fewer than ten books to his name? Eight of those being about archery. Christ, he hadn't even finished high school.

"I was thinking of seeing the new Batman movie," Phil said conversationally. His eyes were fixed firmly on Clint's and Clint knew Phil could easily see the hint of panic building there.

"Batman Begins? It looks alright, I guess," Clint said slowly, attempting to work out if Phil was just trying to lower Clint's guard. In all the time Clint had known him though, Phil had never been anything more than brutally honest: even at times when Clint hadn't really wanted the truth.

"I thought maybe if we could find the time you might want to see it with me?" Phil was calm and certain, and his eyes never left Clint's.

"Wouldn't you rather go see something else?" Clint blurted out, flushing a bright red. He ducked his head, eyes tearing away from Phil's, and stared at the tablecloth as if it could show him the meaning of life if he just looked hard enough.

"Something else?"

"You know, something a bit more…" Clint waved his hand in a vague gesture, unable to find the right words to get his point across.

"Clint." Phil's hand tightened around Clint's and his tone made Clint brave a look at him. Clint knew that expression: it was Phil's patented 'Barton, you're being an idiot' look. "I have no idea where you got the idea that I'm some kind of high society type."

"I don't know..." Clint said, feeling more than a tad sheepish now.

"I like watching trashy reality shows and action movies. I collect Captain America cards and I eat take-out too often because I can't be bothered to cook. And I may have a weakness for insecure archers. Think you can handle that, Agent?" Phil's lips quirked up into a teasing grin and Clint let himself smile back, the last of the panic fading slowly.

"I think I can probably manage that," Clint agreed as a waitress approached their table.

"Are you gentlemen ready to order?" she asked, her notepad and pen at the ready. Phil gave her a polite smile and ordered for both of them despite Clint having had barely a chance to glance at the menu.

"You ordered for me," he muttered after the waitress had left, and the tips of Phil's ears turned pink at his words.

"You usually order the same thing," Phil responded, which was definitely true, but that didn't explain the blush creeping across the back of Phil's neck. Clint smirked, and he would have made a lewd comment or two, but Phil kept talking. "Did you want to order something else?"

"No, I guess not," Clint said after a moment. He was definitely a creature of habit and he liked what he liked. Clint let the matter go, opting to take up a teasing tone instead. "So, reality T.V. huh? Next thing you'll be telling me that you enjoyed the Twilight series…"

"Clint," Phil said suddenly, his tone suddenly wary and his shoulders tense as he looked past Clint's shoulder towards the bar. Clint knew that underneath the table, Phil was already reaching for his weapon. The warm, easy atmosphere disappeared and Clint was instantly alert and wary.

"But we just ordered," he whined even as he reached a hand down for his own firearm. He wished that he had his bow on him, but it was hardly inconspicuous enough for a restaurant, and he'd really been praying that he wouldn't need it.

"I'm sure they'll be very apologetic that they interfered with your dinner plans," Phil deadpanned, and Clint set his jaw and tightened his grip around his pistol. Phil may have been joking, but Clint would make sure that whoever these goons were, they'd learn fast enough not to interrupt Clint's dates.

Clint tensed as he heard the heavy tread of footsteps approaching behind him. At least two men, probably solidly built, and a woman he guessed, going by the sound of heels click-clacking on the tiled floor.

"Agent Coulson; you will come with us or this will not end well for you or your pet hawk," a woman's voice said, and Clint heard the familiar sound of a safety catch being released from a gun. Clint made no movement, but his whole body felt as if it was spring-loaded and just waiting to be released. He watched Phil carefully and he was ready to go when Phil nodded and jerked his head slightly to the right.

Clint dove sideways out of his chair, twisting as he fell so that he could bring his pistol to aim on their attackers. Somehow, they hadn't been expecting it and Clint put a bullet into the first man's shoulder almost before they'd even registered the move. The wounded man let out a yell of pain and clutched at his arm, his weapon clattering to the floor with a thud. Clint kicked out with his feet, sending his chair into the woman's legs with enough force that it caused her to stumble. With a curse, both her and her remaining goon turned their weapons on Clint. That was perhaps their worst mistake.

Phil had dived at the same time as Clint, but in the opposite direction. As their attackers moved around the table to get a clearer shot at Clint, neither of them were paying any attention to Phil. Phil rose silently behind them and Clint could only smirk as the woman became intimately acquainted with Phil's taser.

She let out an angry yelp of surprise as she fell to the ground, twitching. The goon turned on Phil, but Phil was deceptively agile and ducked under the man's arm as he took a swing at him. Phil kicked out at the man's right knee and Clint thought he heard a sickening crack.

The man grunted in surprise and staggered to the left, giving Phil all the opening he needed to bring the butt of his weapon down into the side of the attackers head. The man hit the ground with a heavy thud.

The goon Clint had shot watched his two comrades go down and decided that really, this had been a rather stupid idea and he wanted no further part in it. Still clutching his arm, he scrambled away, tripping over chairs and crashing into tables as he went. Clint leapt after him, diving at the man's feet and bringing him and the table next to him crashing down.

The man kicked out and Clint let out a grunt as the man's foot caught his jaw. That was going to bruise. Clint could feel his grip loosening as the man wriggled, and he was glad when a moment later Phil came up alongside him. Phil placed his foot on the man's back and pushed him back down to the floor. The man cried out in pain as his injured arm jarred painfully.

"I'd stay down if I was you," Phil advised briskly, and he passed Clint a set of handcuffs, ignoring Clint's leer as he barked, "Barton, report."

"A couple of scrapes and bruises, nothing major. Might not be too pretty in the morning, sir." Clint gave Phil a lopsided grin, and once he'd handcuffed the man, he stood for a second to allow Phil to conduct his own visual inspection. Finally Phil nodded, and they moved back to the other two.

The woman glared at them, suffering through involuntary spasms as Phil tied her up. "You cannot defeat Hydra. Cut off one head and two more will take its place."

"Yeah, yeah. You guys need a new catchphrase. I've heard that one at least a hundred times before and it's starting to get old," Clint said as he tied up the last goon as best he could given the other man had at least 50 pounds on him and was still unconscious. The woman actually spat in his direction, fury radiating off of her, and Clint couldn't help but laugh.

"We'd better get them back to base," Phil said quietly, and Clint felt a pang of disappointment and sudden realisation. Their date was over and they hadn't really had it. Phil was back in business mode and Clint had slipped into the role of sarcastic subordinate without even thinking about it.

Clint looked morosely over at the kitchens where a few of the frightened staff had hidden when the fight broke out. They were starting to peer out again now, and judging from the horrified and angry looks, Clint doubted they'd be allowed back anyway.

"You're the boss, sir," he offered and Clint thought he saw a flash of disappointment cross Phil's face. It was gone in an instant though, and Phil tossed Clint his phone.

"Call it in. I need a van here ten minutes ago."

When they got the three culprits back to HQ, a junior agent stopped them. He informed them that almost everyone had gone home already, and that included most of the senior staff. Clint could tell that Phil was not amused. Apparently, he was the only one capable of processing the three morons and the only other option was to let them back out on the streets. Clint could tell Phil was beyond annoyed as he could see an actual frown on his face as he pushed one of the goons towards the door, but he still threw an apologetic look over his shoulder at Clint.

But Clint wasn't prepared to write off the evening just yet. It'd take Phil about an hour to get the initial details of the paperwork over with and the hydra agents locked away in their own private holding cells. The interrogation could wait till tomorrow, and the chance to stew over exactly what was going to happen now that SHIELD had picked them up wouldn't hurt the process. So by the end of the hour, Phil would be heading back up to his office to fill out the rest of the paperwork. That was really all the time Clint needed.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, Clint made his way down the hall to Phil's office, two pizza boxes in hand. It was a familiar sight to see Phil steadily working his way through paperwork at his desk, and Clint leaned against the doorframe to admire the view. After a couple of moments, Phil sighed and looked up. He quirked an eyebrow at the pizza boxes in Clint's arms.

"What are you doing here, Clint?"

"I thought we could finish our date?" Clint couldn't quite hide the vulnerability in his tone. He'd felt less exposed in the middle of the desert with absolutely no cover for miles and potential hostiles closing in on three sides.

"Our date was crashed by Hydra agents and left the nice, little Italian restaurant in a serious state of disarray."

"I got Pizza. That's kind of Italian," Clint offered as he balanced the pizza boxes on a free corner of Phil's desk. He opened the lid and offered Phil a slice before he sat down in the chair opposite Phil.

"Our first date isn't going to end in paperwork, Clint."

"Bit late for that. But you're right it doesn't have to end in paperwork." Clint stretched his arms above his head as he leant back in the chair. Phil's eyes tracked the movement and Clint was pleased to see that they lingered on the bare skin where his shirt had ridden up.

Clint smirked when Phil's eyes rose to meet his and Phil sighed. "Clint, I need to get this done tonight."

Clint smiled at Phil, because really, he wouldn't be Phil if he'd allowed Clint to drag him out of there and leave his paperwork half done. He let his arms fall back down and reached for one of the pens on Phil's desk.

"I know. But you don't have to do it alone," Clint said and twirled the pen between his fingers. Phil smiled warmly at him and handed over half of the paperwork.

"Don't get pizza sauce on my paperwork, Barton," Phil warned him playfully, taking his own slice of pizza out of the box.

They managed to go out for dinner a week later to a Chinese place on the opposite side of town from HQ. They hadn't been attacked by Hydra agents or terrorists or giant robots and had made it all the way through to desert. It had been nice. But Clint still counted the evening of pizza and paperwork in Phil's office as their first date.

~cc~

As he drew his attention back to the present, Clint found that he had ventured into what looked like familiar corridors. It was still slightly disorienting, but he was almost certain that he was somewhere near the HR offices. If the pattern followed, he could take a left and a right up ahead and…

Clint frowned as he came to an abrupt halt. His memory knew that there was supposed to be a door there, leading to the southwest staircase. He watched Bird approach the persistently blank wall, but there were no hidden paths or walkways. Bird let out a chirp that sounded almost disgruntled. Or maybe Clint's was just imagining things.

Clint took a step back, intending to turn and find another way, but his back bumped into something solid and immoveable behind him. He turned swiftly, only to find another wall where only moments before there had been a corridor. He stared at the brand new wall for a moment. He glanced over his shoulder at the other, still solid wall and back again.

"Damn it."

He sat down, his back to the wall as he tried to swallow the hysterical giggle that was threatening to escape. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Trapped in a portion of corridor that shouldn't even exist—how was this his life? Something soft nudged at his fingers, and when he looked, Bird was there looking up at him quizzically.

"Not sure what we're going to do now. This doesn't make any sense." He closed his eyes and sighed as he ran a hand over his face. Every time he let himself relax and just go with the familiar tunnels, something would happen to shake it back up again. How was he supposed to find Phil if he was stuck here?

When he blinked his eyes open again, the room had changed. Instead of the blank wall, there were now two identical doors. Clint startled to his feet, displacing Bird in the process, and the small creature nipped grumpily at his leg.

The doors were identical, both plain white and completely nondescript. On the wall between the two doors four lines of engraved writing had appeared suddenly, and Clint frowned as he read the verse.

'Right or left, life or death,

When moving on you must take care;

Left for even, right for odd

How many sitrep forms are there?'

_What? _

Clint stared at the four lines. He blinked his eyes harder than strictly necessary, hoping that more words would appear. Nothing. He sighed and slumped back down to the floor. He had no clue what the answer was. Clint was not a fan of paperwork except when he'd turned it into paper planes to launch at unsuspecting agents as they wandered past. He normally completed the forms that Phil gave him, but that was only because he loved Phil, and he'd never thought to pay attention to what the damned things were called.

He knew that there were separate ones for individual and team missions and different forms were required depending on whether the mission was successful or if they'd failed to meet the mission objectives. He suspected there was a whole other form if the asset ended up in medical, but Phil hadn't made him fill those out in years, so he wasn't sure if those were still in use. In addition, he vaguely remembered Stark bitching about paperwork after New York, so apparently attacks on SHIELD got their own form as well. But he knew there was more to it than that and it was entirely possible that there were different forms for different types of missions.

Clint sighed loudly. Bird hopped up onto Clint's legs, talons digging into his flesh through his pants, and tilted his head in a way that was almost quizzical.

"I don't know, buddy. If I pick one of those doors, we've got a 50/50 chance of winding up dead," he said. Frowning, he fixed his eyes back on the two doors, trying to spot anything he might have missed. He muttered the words out loud, sounding out each part slowly as if there might be hints hidden in the phrasing.

Bird chirruped loudly. Clint ignored the sound, not even glancing down, so he wasn't prepared for the sharp peck to his hand. He jerked his hand away and glared at Bird.

"Ow! Get off!"

With his uninjured hand he shoved Bird off of him, cursing under his breath. Bird gave him a sharp look and moved closer. Clint frowned and watched warily in case Bird moved to peck him again, but Bird merely fixed his unblinking eyes on Clint, and maybe he was starting to go insane, but Clint had to fight the urge to squirm. There was something familiar about the way that Bird looked at him, but he couldn't quite place it.

And then Bird chirped shrilly and hopped away from Clint and towards the doors. More specifically, Bird hopped straight to the left door. Then he turned and fixed his gaze steadily on Clint, looking at him expectantly.

"You're kidding, right?" Clint asked, not sure if he was asking Bird or himself, but not really expecting the disapproving squawk from Bird. Bird didn't move from the door or shift his gaze, so Clint pulled himself upright and moved closer.

_I must be crazy_, he thought to himself, not for the first time as he sent one last glance at the door to his right. He took hold of the handle of the door on his left and closed his eyes. Clint prayed that he'd chosen the right one as he stepped through the doorway.

He was surprised to find that the door opened into a kitchenette, one of the ones that were scattered all over headquarters. The benches were small and cramped, most of the space taken up by a microwave, and there was no way for two people to manoeuvre in the small space without stepping on each other. It was a welcome change from the bland, unchanging corridors, and there was food on the bench. Clint's stomach rumbled appreciatively.

"Nice work," Clint told Bird, who, honest to God, puffed out his chest proudly and preened at the praise.

It was nothing more than a couple of sandwiches and a pack of chips, but Clint wasn't exactly in a position to be fussy. He'd survived on a lot worse out in the field when an op. had gone bad and it'd taken days (or on one particularly bad occasion, weeks) before he could get back to SHIELD.

Bird chirruped at him and Clint tossed him a chunk of sandwich and some chips as he bit into his own sandwich. It was good and Clint let out a pleased moan. He hadn't realised how hungry he was. He'd already demolished an entire sandwich before he remembered that he should probably save some for later. Who knew when he'd next get the chance to find food? Carefully, he wrapped up the remaining sandwich and placed it in his back pocket.

He felt decidedly more cheerful when he stood. Bird had helped him polish off the rest of the chips and looked less tired and miserable than he had earlier.

"Shall we?" he asked as he opened the door to Bird. Bird tweeted cheerily as he hopped through, and Clint laughed, shaking his head as he followed after him.


	4. Chapter 4

The Right Path Part 4

Disclaimer: Don't own anything recognisable

~cc~ denotes the shift between reality and dreams/flashbacks

* * *

Clint's feet were starting to drag along the floor. He'd been trapped in this stupid maze for at least thirty-six hours now and he didn't feel as if he'd gotten any closer to finding Phil. In fact, more often than not, he felt as though he was going around in circles and it was starting to wear him down. While Clint was used to long periods of wakefulness while staking out a target, even he needed sleep eventually.

But Phil was still stuck somewhere in this place and Clint didn't think he'd be able to fall asleep knowing that Phil could be just around the next corner. So he kept up a steady shuffle down the corridors, checking out the different doors just in case.

And if he was struggling to keep his eyes open, well, there was only Bird around to see it.

The recreational room was a surprise. He'd only seen offices and corridors the entire time he'd been walking and he was sure he'd been somewhere near Weapons R&D and he'd only seen offices and corridors in the hours he'd been walking. He was just turning a corner when he almost stumbled at the sudden change in scenery. He knew he should probably just keep going, but he hesitated for a moment. The couch in the middle of the room looked soft and welcoming, and Clint's thoughts were foggy with the need for sleep. He needed to keep going, though, needed to find Phil. He shuffled forward to move past the couch, only to feel a pull on the bottom of his pants. Bird had caught hold of Clint's pants and he gave another firm tug before he hopped over to the couch.

Clint frowned. "We have to keep going."

Bird tweeted mournfully, giving Clint a tired look, and the couch _did_ look ridiculously appealing. And really, he wasn't going to be of any use to Phil if he passed out from exhaustion before he even found him.

"Fine—but just for a couple of hours."

He let himself sink down onto the couch in an exhausted heap, and a relieved sigh escaped him. He hadn't let himself think about how truly tired he was. Bird hopped up onto his chest, just above his heart, when Clint lay down, and Clint let himself run his fingers through the soft feathers. His hand was moving in a slow, steady rhythm as he fell asleep between one motion and the next.

He dreamt.

~cc~

He was in their apartment, curled around Phil the way he used to on rare, lazy Sunday mornings. He'd missed this. He pressed a kiss to the back of Phil's neck and tightened his arms around Phil's waist. The movement caused Phil to stir, shifting back against Clint with a content mumble. Clint pressed another kiss to Phil's bare skin, this time against his shoulder, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

Phil's body tensed for a brief moment. Then he was rolling over in Clint's arms so that they were facing each other. A half smile crept across Phil's face and he blinked sleepily up at Clint before burying his face against Clint's shoulder.

"Miss you," Clint mumbled, and while he couldn't hear Phil's reply, he could almost feel the words as Phil whispered them against Clint's shoulder. God, if this was a dream, Clint didn't ever want to wake up. He pressed another kiss to the top of Phil's head; content in that moment in a way he hadn't been in a long time.

Phil eventually pulled back, just far enough so that they were lying face to face. Clint brought one hand up and rested it over Phil's heart until he could feel the steady thump beneath it.

"Clint," Phil breathed out his name quietly, like some kind of prayer. "I thought I'd lost you."

The words jarred, something about them making Clint frown slightly. That wasn't something Phil normally said when Clint had these dreams. Clint was here, where he'd always been, and Phil was the one who'd almost died and still hadn't woken up. He dipped his head down to press a chaste kiss against Phil's lips.

"I'm right here," Clint promised, and Phil sighed softly.

"I know you are," he said, but he looked almost miserable, and Clint couldn't have that.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"We've had this conversation before. In a dream." And yeah, that didn't make sense. Clint was pretty sure that it was his dream, and Phil had never said anything like that before. Phil closed his eyes and leant forward until his forehead rested against Clint's. "I feel like I'm always dreaming, and I can't work out how to wake up."

"Phil?" Clint asked hesitantly, his fingers curling tighter around Phil's waist. Clint really hoped his mind wasn't just getting creative when it came to tormenting him. "This is my dream."

Phil's eyes widened slowly and his hands carefully traced their way over Clint's bare shoulders. There was a wild look in his eyes that Clint didn't think he'd ever seen before, and then Phil crashed their lips together. There was no style or finesse, and their jaws bumped uncomfortably together, but Clint didn't care.

It felt real in a way that none of Clint's dreams ever had before. Phil's fingers dug into his shoulder and Clint pressed himself as close as he could. He savoured the moment for as long as he could, but he knew it wouldn't last.

~cc~

Clint woke suddenly, his arms reflexively reaching for a man whose presence was no longer there, and the familiar, hollow sense of longing chased away any lingering warmth from the dream. Clint rubbed absently at the ache in his chest as he exhaled slowly, trying to force his mind back to the present.

Had it really been Phil?

Stranger things had happened lately that the idea of Phil and Clint sharing a dream between them didn't feel all that farfetched to him. It had felt real, although it had been so long since he'd actually seen Phil that his mind might have conjured such a life-like version of Phil just to stave off his desolation.

He wished he could dream of Phil like that every night. Instead, Clint had been stuck in a vicious cycle of nightmares, alternating between memories from his time under Loki's control and images of his arrows piercing Phil's heart.

Carefully, he sat up, gently moving Bird who was still asleep on his chest. Bird was jolted into awareness by the movement, though, and he tweeted mournfully as he shook off his sleep. Clint pulled out the remaining half of the sandwich from the day before and broke off a small chunk for Bird, who pecked at the food gratefully.

"I suppose we'd better get going again," Clint muttered after their food was gone and he felt his body reenergise itself with the substance. Bird chirped and hopped into his lap, looking up at Clint with big, wide eyes.

"You want to hitch a ride?" Clint asked, amused, and he could almost swear that he'd seen Bird nod an affirmative. Laughing at himself, he placed the small creature on his shoulder as he stood up, ready to resume their quest.

"Come on then. We've got a long day of walking ahead of us."

The corridors outside the rec room had changed over night, and Clint frowned thoughtfully in response. Finally he shrugged and chose a corridor at random. It really wouldn't make much of a difference.

The walking was fairly easy-going now that he'd rested, and despite himself, Clint let his mind drift.

~cc~

Clint woke in medical after yet another mission gone wrong. He was pretty sure this one hadn't been _entirely_ his fault, but the details in his mind were still a little fuzzy, so he couldn't tell for certain. He quickly realised that he had to be hooked up on the good drugs, because other than a dull ache in his chest there was a surprising lack of pain.

There was a small squeeze of his left hand and Clint turned to find Phil sitting in a chair placed next to his bed. Phil had that tired look around his eyes and the concerned expression that Clint had come to recognise as Phil's 'you've done something highly stupid and dangerous, why do I put up with you?' face.

"Hey," Clint said, and his voice sounded coarse and unused even to his own ears. "How long was I out?"

"You've been in medical for the past three days, Agent Barton," Phil's tone was all professionalism and Clint winced in response. If Phil was calling him Agent Barton while Clint was stuck in a bed in medical, he was probably pissed. Phil didn't like to yell at Clint in front of the medical personnel though, because half of them still believed he was some kind of robot and it would definitely shatter Phil's carefully maintained reputation.

"Sorry, sir. Won't happen again," Clint replied cheerily, the same way he always did. Normally, Phil would start the debriefing after that; his relief evident in the faint smile that only Clint could see.

But Phil didn't look relieved. His eyes kept flicking to the machines by Clint's side, and Clint felt the first stirrings of worry build in his chest.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Nothing flustered Phil, nothing. He was astoundingly unflappable, particularly at work. His stoic demeanour was legendary, and there was still a betting pool amongst the junior agents that Phil was secretly a robot.

If Phil was worried about him…

"I'm dying, aren't I?" Clint asked, although he was fairly sure he already knew the answer. What else could have gotten Phil so worried that he wasn't even attempting to hide his concern in front of the medical staff?

"What?" Phil's expression somehow managed to look even _more_ worried, near horrified even, and the nurse who'd been coming in to check on Clint, took one look at Phil's face before she walked back out again.

"I'm sure they did the best they could. Don't blame Natasha; she'd have been the first one to tell me I'd done something stupid. Well, second, anyways. I didn't…" Clint trailed off, unable to get out the words that he wanted to say, to tell Phil that he'd never, ever wanted to leave once he'd found him.

He swallowed.

"It's been an honour, I guess. And I know you've got rules bout maintaining professional relationships when we're at work, but I love you, Phil. I always will, and I'd have kept loving you forever if you'd have had me."

Clint was mildly horrified at this uncharacteristic emotional outburst, and he hastily clapped a hand over his mouth to forcibly shut himself up, only to flinch as the movement jarred his shoulder and a sharp pain shot through him. Phil stared at him, not confirming Clint's suspicions, but not denying them either. Oh God, he was going to die. He couldn't even really remember what had happened and he was going to die from it. He hadn't even gotten a chance to ask…

"Marry me, Clint."

Clint blinked. Phil did too.

Clint hadn't been expecting that, and it looked as if Phil hadn't either, but he didn't try and take it back, didn't say anything. Just stared at Clint. Clint thought about the dinner he'd planned for, well, last Friday now. He thought of his carefully planned out speech, his already rehearsed plan to brush it aside as a joke if that wasn't what Phil wanted. He thought of the ring currently hidden inside of the vents of their apartment.

"No," Clint giggled, and Phil's face immediately shuttered as he stood.

"Sorry if I have misinterpreted the situation, Agent Barton. I wish you a speedy recovery." And Phil was leaving. Phil couldn't leave. Clint jerked forward, ignoring the sobering pain that flared from his ribs.

"Phil, wait. You don't understand." Clint managed to grab Phil's hand and Phil turned, his face still carefully blank.

"I think I understand perfectly well, Agent Barton."

"Nooooo… I can't marry you. You're supposed to marry me. There's a ring and everything." Clint was giggling again—and damn if those drugs really weren't the good stuff— because this was totally not how he'd envisioned this moment, but Phil was looking at him with the biggest smile Clint had ever seen on his face, and somehow that made everything okay.

"Just to be clear, I'm not dying, right?"

"No, Clint," Phil's tone was an exasperated sigh, but Clint knew Phil loved him, so that was okay too.

The 'yay-we-didn't-die/we're-engaged' celebratory sex two days later (Clint having finally been discharged from medical) was definitely better than okay, and Clint was pretty sure that this was exactly how he wanted to spend every day of the rest of his life.

~cc~

Clint was mid-stride when he heard the first rumble. It was a low-pitched growly noise; the type of noise that was a glaringly obvious clue for Clint to stay on the good side of whatever made it. But, since he'd found Bird, the silence wasn't exactly what anyone would call insurmountable and there was a near constant buzz of noise, just too distant for Clint to make out. He kept going.

He made sure he took his time though, more on edge as he checked corridors and doorways. While before, his footsteps had echoed through the empty rooms, now he made the effort to tread softly. He bent down and picked up Bird to stop the click clacking of his claws against the tiles. Precautions never hurt anyone, and he'd already let himself relax too much over the last couple of days.

The noise came again, a lot closer this time, which would have made Clint jump if he hadn't been a highly trained SHIELD assassin. His guard went up and his senses were on high alert. Every part of his body tense and ready for action at the slightest unknown movement.

Somehow, he was still unprepared for the giant four-headed lizard-y thing that he came face to face with when he turned the corner.


	5. Chapter 5

The Right Path Part 5

Disclaimer: Still don't own Avengers or the Labyrinth

~cc~ denotes a shift between reality and dreams/flashbacks

* * *

Clint didn't hesitate; he shifted Bird under one of his arms for protection, and then he ran. The creature roared behind him, and the loud scraping noise of its claws digging through tiles and plaster followed Clint as he ran.

What the hell was that thing?

Either SHIELD's R&D department had been up to some really, _really_ weird lab experiments, or whatever that thing was, it wasn't from around here. It looked kind of like something from one of Thor's sagas. Clint thought longingly of his bow, probably lying neglected on the range in the real SHIELD HQ, and wished he had it on him. All Clint had now was his little boot knife, and judging from the scales on that thing, it just wasn't going to cut it.

He skidded around another corner and glanced over his shoulder. The lizard was getting closer, crawling on the walls and ceiling with eight, glowing, green eyes tracking Clint's every move. A claw reached out and Clint had to make an abrupt duck to the left to avoid it.

Clint swerved through the next open doorway, making the lizard roar again as it skid past. The new room was a large office space, so Clint weaved his way between the cubicles, grabbing a couple of rubber bands off a desk as he ran past. Bird chirped in protest at being jostled so roughly but Clint ignored him.

"I'm getting us out of here, buddy. Not sure how just yet, but I'll work something out," Clint murmured, keeping his head low beneath the cubicle wall.

Suddenly, a tail smashed through one of the cubicle walls, sending debris flying as the lizard moved into the office area. Clint launched a pen at one of its heads with one of the rubber bands, not stopping to watch as it bounced harmlessly off without so much as a flicker of irritation from the beast.

He needed something sharper, but he really didn't want to have to use his knife and get rid of the only real defence he and Bird had. The tail passed over his head, so much closer this time, and Clint headed straight for the nearest doorway. He hurtled through another room of offices and a corridor, keeping his eyes peeled for anything he could use as a weapon.

He hit the jackpot when he ran into medical. According to Clint's mental layout of SHIELD HQ, he shouldn't have been anywhere near the medical department, but he wasn't going to question it. He dove for one of the drawers that he knew contained needles and scalpels and all manner of other sharp, pointy things that the medical staff liked to stick him with every time he so much as walked through the doors. He placed Bird carefully on top of the drawer as he started to search for what he needed.

"Stethoscope, bandages, blood-pressure cuff…Aha–scalpel!" Clint exclaimed as he pulled out the sharp, pointy objects just as the creature's claws dug into the doorframe. As the lizard crawled into the room, Clint forced himself to hold steady, improvised slingshot in hand. The lizard slowed its approach as it noticed that its prey had stopped moving.

Four pairs of eyes watched Clint warily, stalking across the ceiling at the other side of the medical bay, just out of range of Clint's makeshift weapon.

"Come on, come on."

For a moment, it turned towards the door as if it had decided that Clint wasn't worth the effort after all, but then, it lunged. Clint fired the weapon on instinct as he flung himself sideways. Rolling to his feet, he reached for another implement to load into his slingshot. Metal clanged and there was the sound of something shattering as the lizard crashed into the drawers, howling in pain and rage.

The monster rounded on him, and Clint could see the scalpel sticking out of one of its eyes. When it charged again, Bird joined the fray and launched himself with a screech into the air, and Clint didn't hesitate as he fired again. As the beast fell down, its tail flailed out and a barb caught the side of Clint's arm, making him grunt at the stirrings of what was sure to be a bitch of a pain later, when Clint's adrenaline run out.

Bird landed on one of the lizard's heads, scratching and pecking at the thick scales, and the lizard roared, shaking its head until Bird was dislodged. Clint ignored the pain in his arm and took aim again. The lizard stared at him, eyeing the slingshot in his hand with its remaining eyes.

Just as Clint was about to fire another shot, the creature hissed at him, its eyes flashing angrily. It scrambled backwards, away from Clint and out of the medical department, and Clint breathed out a sigh of relief as the sound of claws digging into tiles faded away into the distance.

Dropping the slingshot to the ground, he pressed his good hand over his injured arm and hissed at the sting. Bird hopped over from where he'd landed in the corner after being shaken from the lizard. Tiny eyes locked onto Clint's wounded arm and the blood that was starting to seep through Clint's fingers. Bird whistled worriedly.

"I'm okay. Just a scratch, really," Clint assured Bird as he moved towards a cupboard that he knew stored basic medical supplies like bandages. The process was slightly awkward as he tried to clean and bandage the wound one-handed, and Bird hopped around him agitatedly, paying close attention to everything Clint did. Clint rolled his eyes, but he held out his arm when he was done for Bird's inspection.

"See, it's fine," Clint said as he stood up again. Chirping in response, Bird flapped his wings hesitantly and Clint remembered Bird's involvement in the fight. "Hey, you flew. You've never really done that before."

Bird blinked, flapping his wings hesitantly again, and seemed a little startled when it lifted him off the ground. He came down again, landing with an undignified skittering across the tiles. Clint let out a burst of laughter at the sight, and Bird looked away, almost as if he was embarrassed.

"Never mind, maybe all you need is some practice," Clint offered and bent down to offer Bird his arm to perch on. "Want a ride? We'd probably best be moving on before that thing comes back."

Bird hopped up eagerly and made his way up so that he was perched easily on Clint's uninjured shoulder. Clint pocketed a couple of the sharp medical tools just in case, before heading out of medical and back into the seemingly endless corridors.

He hoped that there was only one of those lizards around and, knock on wood, that there wasn't something bigger and nastier just waiting around a different corner. Creatures like that just defied all reason and logic. It had kind of reminded him of that one time in Prague. The mission had been to infiltrate a medical research facility that SHIELD intelligence suspected was a front for Hydra's research into chemical warfare and genetic mutation…

~cc~

Clint hated undercover work. It wasn't as simple as tossing on a lab coat and some phony glasses. Those disguises were paper-thin and wouldn't stand up past the first cursory glances. David Whitmore had to be just as real as Clint Barton in a sense. He was a quiet man, shy until you got to know him, and he kept to himself in the labs. His shoulders hunched when he walked and his fingers had a slight habit of twitching when he got excited. Clint hated the way it felt as if he was burying himself underneath the other identity.

Which was why when 'David' was left alone to tidy away the day's experiments after everyone else had gone home, Clint let the other identity fall away. He relaxed his shoulders and cracked his neck from side to side. Then, just because he could, he flipped up onto one of the benches and walked along its length on his hands. He'd missed this freedom of movement.

"Show off," Phil's voice came from the entrance, and Clint threw him an upside down grin before somersaulting off the table to land in front of Phil. Phil didn't even step back, just raised a questioning eyebrow. He'd missed Phil, too. Even though they were assigned to the same mission, they hadn't been able to have much contact, because it would have put their cover stories at risk. Clint would never jeopardise a mission just because he missed his boyfriend, and Phil _definitely_ wouldn't.

"We making a move, boss?" Clint asked and watched as Phil nodded. He shoved a case into Clint's hands that Clint knew contained his collapsible recurve. He took it gladly, letting himself take a moment as he opened it to run his fingers down the smooth handle. That was the other part he hated about undercover work. He never got to take his bow; a definite sign that something was wrong with the world.

"Barton, you can make love to your bow later. Right now, we've got to move."

Clint swung the quiver Phil held out to him over his shoulder and fell into step behind his boyfriend as he started to walk quickly through the lab. "So what's the plan, Coulson?"

"SHIELD needs as much info as we can pull on Hydra's plans and research. Not sure if it's escaped your notice while you were mucking around, but they're planning something in the next few days and SHIELD needs to know what that is. We get the intel, we get out."

"Easy as that, huh?" Clint asked. Phil ignored him. They were both all too aware that 'routine' and 'easy' missions rarely went according to plan when you worked for SHIELD. They moved down a couple of corridors before Phil ducked through a door marked 'Janitorial Supplies.'

"Coulson, if you really wanted to make out in a supply closet, all you had to do was ask," Clint leered as they piled into the small, enclosed space. Phil rolled his eyes.

"Keep your hands to yourself, Barton," he said as he closed the door behind them. With one hand, he moved a bucket to the side to reveal a pin pad, entering in a code without hesitation. Clint jerked forward as the wall behind him made a creaking noise and swung backwards to reveal a new corridor.

Clint was kind of impressed. Secret passages were a whole new level of cool that Clint had thought was frankly beyond Hydra. As they stepped through, the wall slid shut seamlessly behind them.

"Hey, sir, why don't we have secret doors and corridors at SHIELD?"

"Who says we don't?" Phil replied smoothly and Clint sputtered a little.

"Bullshit. If they were there, I'd have found them by now."

"They'd hardly be secret if just anyone could find them," Phil responded, a smile just barely hinted at in the corner of his mouth.

"Well, are there?"

"Above your clearance level, Barton," Phil said, clearly amused now, and Clint laughed.

The next room they moved into was some kind of holding area. There were cages along each wall and banked up through the middle, and as soon as they stepped through the doors, a cacophony of growls, whimpers and howls sprung to life. Phil hurried forward, but Clint slowed his steps to peer into the dimly lit cages. Dogs, cats, monkeys, and a snake all tracked his movements warily with brilliant, red eyes.

His own eyes lit up when he spotted a certain cage and he picked it up carefully, trying to avoid jostling the creature inside. "You're a strange, little creature, aren't you? Hey, Coulson?"

"No, Barton, put it back," Phil said without even glancing over his shoulder.

"Awww, but it's cute." Phil raised an eyebrow at the cage as Clint held it out towards him. The hamster in it bared his teeth at Phil and its eyes were an angry red. For some reason it was also glowing a brilliant, fluorescent green. Clint gave him an amused grin. "Can we keep it?"

"Keep yourself out of medical for the next month and we'll talk," Phil said nonchalantly, as he turned and started to walk away.

"I'm never getting a radioactive hamster, am I?"

"Not my fault you can't stay out of medical for more than two weeks," Phil offered and his lips twitched at the edges, the only hint of a smile Clint would get while they were working. "Put the hamster down, Barton, we've got work to do."

"Yes, sir," Clint said and placed the cage carefully back on the shelf next to the others. "Bye, little buddy. Bite your Hydra handler next time you see him, 'kay?"

"Barton!"

"Coming," Clint replied, jogging to catch up to where Phil was already moving through to another laboratory. They went through four more labs, filled with mostly typical Bunsen burners and chemicals, and Phil never faltered. Finally, they came to a door with a heavy, solid bolt that required three different forms of identification.

"What now, boss? Got a Hydra eyeball stashed away in your suit?"

"You doubting me, Hawkeye?" Phil asked as he pulled something out of his pocket and attached it to the door. It was a small, black, circular, device and a red light flashed ominously. Phil took several steps back from the door and turned around. Clint blinked.

"Is that a…"

"Turn around, Barton."

And Clint did, just in time to protect his eyes from the small explosion the device gave off. The door gave a sad groan before falling backwards into an empty office. Phil moved forward, stepping gingerly over the wreckage as he moved towards a desk and the computer resting on top of it.

Clint watched him work, casually admiring the view as he kept his hands on his weapon, ready to shoot. It was his job to make sure Phil had the time he needed and wasn't interrupted, but in the middle of the night there weren't any guards to shoot, which left Clint to one of his favourite past times: Phil watching.

Phil got this look of absolute focus on his face whenever he was given a task. There was no doubt in Clint's mind that he could shift the focus almost instantly if there was cause, but for the moment his attention was entirely tied up in hacking through Hydra's firewalls and encryptions and he was trusting Clint to keep him safe long enough to do that. Clint tried to ignore the warm, fuzzy feeling that thought tended to give him.

He snapped back into focus as a dim glow flickered into his vision from the other end of the corridor. He turned his head to find a shadow, tinged by a purplish light, cast against the wall from a side corridor. It seemed to be getting closer and Clint reached back to slowly draw an arrow out of his quiver in anticipation for whatever else was out there. He didn't have to wait long.

"Ah, Phil? What the hell is that?" Clint asked, training his bow on the glowing, purple light that had emerged at the end of the corridor. There was a dark mass in the centre, but the light surrounding it was making it difficult to see clearly. Clint could hear the warning growls just fine though.

"What's the matter, Barton, I thought you wanted a pet," Phil said without even glancing up from where the electronic transfer was finalising. The menacing light moved closer, obviously deciding that they weren't meant to be in its territory. Clint swore.

"You might want to hurry it up, Coulson. I don't think it's friendly."

"Thirty seconds," Phil snapped in reply, his tone brisk and all-business as his eyes flicked from the computer screen to the glowing, purple shape. As it moved forward, Clint could see that it was some type of dog, only the normal backyard variety didn't exactly glow in the dark and there was something ominous and almost demonic about the way its eyes glowed red.

"What the hell is Hydra doing down here?" Clint demanded as the dog slinked forward. Clint released his first arrow and watched as it sunk into the creature's leg, making it give off an ear-piercing howl. Answering howls rose up from nearby, growing louder as the dog's pack got closer. Clint sent a second arrow flying almost immediately to try and stop the noise, but the damned monster twisted to one side and caught the arrow in its jaw. Clint reached for the firearm he kept holstered at his side in case of emergencies, even as the creature snapped Clint's arrow in half using only its teeth.

"We'll find out soon enough, but I think for now it's time to get out of here," Phil commented as he appeared by Clint's left shoulder, his firearm already out and trained on the creature.

"Good plan," Clint murmured. Three more dogs, all glowing a bright purple, charged around the corner and into the corridor, snarling at Clint and Phil. The sound of more dogs closing in on them made Clint's trigger finger itch. "On your signal, sir?"

The dogs lunged at the same time that Phil yelled, "Now," and Clint leapt to one side, firing his pistol at the animals. The bullets pierced through flesh and bones as the dogs skidded past, yelping as they crashed head first into a wall.

"Run, Barton!"

Clint really didn't need to be told twice. He took off down the corridor back towards the rest of the science labs with Phil just a step behind him. More dogs appeared from side corridors right behind them, gnashing their teeth at their heels. Clint fired a couple of shots and watched as the injured dogs fell away, no longer capable of pursuit. But for each dog that fell, another took its place until there seemed to be a swarm of dogs behind them.

"What's the plan, Coulson? We're going to run out of ammo before we even make a dent in their numbers," Clint panted as he paused for a brief moment to reload his weapon while Phil provided cover fire.

"Always pays to be prepared, Barton," Phil answered and Clint glanced over to see Phil pulling a grenade out of his jacket pocket.

"You brought grenades?" Clint asked incredulously. They very rarely went on the type of mission where grenades were necessary, and a straight forward intel run in an empty Hydra facility hardly seemed to require such extreme measures.

"Aren't you glad I did?" Phil replied pleasantly. "Get to the stairwell, Barton, I've seen the schematics and this wasn't the most structurally sound building I've ever seen."

Phil unloaded another round of bullets at the dogs and their yelps reverberated throughout the halls. The other dogs maintained their advance, their pack mates' injuries only seeming to incense them further. Clint skidded around the upcoming corridor, thankful that the stairwell wasn't too far from their current position.

Three purple hazes were standing in front of the narrow doorway to the stairwell, their teeth bared and their growls mingling with those of the swarm behind Phil and Clint. Clint didn't hesitate. He dropped his gun and had an arrow embedded in one of the creatures eyes and another in the air without even a second to slow down. He'd just loaded his third arrow when the third dog tumbled to the ground in a heap, a bullet hole in its forehead.

Phil was first to reach the stairs and he ran about a third of the way up before he turned. Clint followed behind, unable to run as fast while putting arrows through the eyes of the leading dogs.

"Move, Barton!" Phil yelled above the noise as Clint's heels hit the first steps. Clint turned and ran up the remaining stairs as Phil lobbed his grenade through the doorway. The explosion a moment later shook the building and had Clint leaning on the stair rails as he moved upwards. The dogs yelped and howled, and the smell of burning flesh floated upwards as they ran. They reached the second floor and Phil dropped a second grenade over the side, bracing himself for the explosion as Clint caught up with him.

A couple of shots took out the few dogs that had made it through the explosions before they made their way back up to the main laboratory.

"Coulson? They're going to notice those explosions."

"There's a SHIELD team en route to take care of the rest. There's going to be a staged attack and then they are going to raze this facility to the ground," Phil told him, and Clint made a mock horrified face.

"But what about Fluffy? Just think about him down there, all scared in his little cage. Doesn't it just break your heart?"

"I'm sure I'll live. In fact, I may even sleep better knowing that I've kept the world free of radioactive house pets," Phil said with a remarkably straight face, and Clint couldn't hold in his laugh. There was another explosion from below, making the building shake threateningly. Something down there must have caught on fire, possibly even one of the dogs.

"SHIELD better hurry up or there won't be anything left," Clint observed and sped up his pace. Being caught up in collapsing buildings always led to more paperwork than he cared for and Phil giving him that sad, disappointed look.

Thankfully, the building remained standing long enough for Phil and Clint to make it outside. Smoke was starting to escape from some of the windows and there was a thick smell of burning, but the levels above ground still looked largely untouched. Clint turned to Phil and grinned.

"So what now, Coulson?"

"Now, Agent Barton, we make the rendezvous point and get back to base for debriefing," Phil ordered, checking his phone with one hand. Probably trying to work out the ETA of the clean up crew.

"Yes, sir. And after?"

"After that, I'm going to take my boyfriend home and reward him for managing to make it through an entire mission without serious injury," Phil said in that businesslike tone of his, but his eyes were warm and focussed entirely on Clint instead of the burning building. Clint smirked and hoped that the extraction team wasn't too far away.

"I missed you too, Phil."

~cc~

As he shook his head free from the memory, Clint realised that the corridors were becoming more familiar as he walked. In fact, he'd say that he was on the same floor as Phil's office. He slowed his pace, carefully checking each corner and corridor to avoid sudden dead ends before turning.

"Nearly there," he said aloud to Bird, who chirruped a tired reply, having moved off Clint's shoulder a while back to walk on his own. Clint glanced over his shoulder and found that Bird had fallen behind Clint's easy gait. Bird's strange, little hopping was slow and weary, as if each jump was becoming too much of an effort.

Clint smiled at the small figure and waited for it to catch up. Carefully, he reached down, picking Bird up with both hands. He couldn't resist the urge to pull Bird close to his chest, taking comfort in the heat of another living creature.

"You and me, buddy, we can do this," he muttered as he took the next step forward.

Only for the floor to promptly disappear from underneath his feet.

Clint didn't even have time to scream as he was suddenly plummeting through a dark shaft. Bird squawked, high-pitched and terrified, and Clint instinctively pulled the poor creature closer as they fell further and further.

It felt as though they'd been falling for ages, but in reality he thought that less than a minute could have passed before Clint felt the walls starting to curve slightly. A moment later and they were sliding. Clint kept firm hold of Bird until they crashed down through a ceiling and onto a conveniently placed mattress. They were both shaking from fear and adrenaline, Bird remaining frozen stiff in Clint's arms as he took stock of their surroundings.

SHIELD's holding cells hadn't improved since the last time he'd been stuck in them.

The same almost claustrophobically narrow space, the single bed and basic amenities. A glass wall along one side showed the blank, white walls of the corridor outside. The only difference was the keypad on the inside of the door rather than the outside.

"Now what?" Clint muttered in frustration. He was getting sick of all this, and really, he just wanted to find Phil and go home. Carefully, he placed Bird on the bed, ignoring the way the quiet, distressed noises pulled at him, and moved towards the door. He typed in his passcode, but it flashed an angry red.

Yeah…He hadn't really thought that would work.

He tried Phil's passcode. Then Fury's. He even tried Hill's and Nat's. But the light remained a glaring red and the door remained stubbornly locked. Clint sighed. He wasn't quite ready to start typing in random numbers, but it probably wouldn't take long.

"This sucks."

The keypad beeped, the number display glowing a creepy green.

Clint glanced at it warily. Text trailed across the tiny screen.

No one escapes the holding cells without answering me these questions three:

How many Captain America cards are considered vintage?

Captain America led a band of troops called the Howling Commandoes with how many members?

How many times did Steve Rogers attempt to enlist before he was spotted for the Super-soldier project?

Clint groaned loudly.

Phil had always been the Captain America enthusiast; Clint had really just tagged along to film screenings and swap meets to be a good boyfriend. Plus, Phil was fairly adorable when he let his geekier side shine through. Clint really wished he'd paid attention now.

The first part was easy. There were twelve Captain America cards that were considered vintage, and Clint knew this because he'd spent the better half of the previous year tracking down the last one that Phil was missing as a gift for Christmas. The second and third parts were harder.

Clint sat down on the bed, one hand raking through his hair as he thought hard. Bird tweeted at him, but he just shook his head and tried to concentrate. He tried to think back to the last few movies Phil had dragged him to. Some of them had actually been filmed on real missions during the war. The Howling Commandoes were legend, and he knew that the band had grown after Steve's plane had crashed, but that wasn't what it was asking.

How many had Steve led?

He'd rescued them out of one of Hydra's facilities when the US army had given up on them, and they'd followed him back to the war. Bucky, of course, and Dum Dum Dugan. There was that French guy and one or two others that Clint vaguely remembered. Five? No, six. There were six Commandoes originally.

Well, that was two down, but Clint had no idea on the third. It wasn't something that was overly publicised. Clint knew that Steve had been a skinny guy from Brooklyn before the serum, and that he had been knocked back due to health issues, but they hardly publicised that Steve had broken the law to enlist. Media focus was definitely on his actions post-serum.

Clint sighed, and Bird chirped, nudging at Clint's hand. Clint let his fingers stroke through the feathers. He had to work this out or else they'd both be trapped in an imitation of a SHIELD holding cell until they died of starvation.

"Don't worry, buddy. I'll get there. I promised you that I'd get you out of here and I'm going to do exactly that. You, me, and Phil," Clint spoke with fierce determination, and he wracked his brain for anything that might help him work out the answer, sifting through vague memories of comics and films, and even the cursory glance he'd given to Steve's SHIELD file.

In the end, it wasn't any of Phil's fan information that gave him the answer. A half-remembered conversation from one of Steve's mandatory team lunches that Natasha had dragged him to floated into his mind. Tony had been mocking Steve about his All-American boy image and how Tony just knew that Steve had been eager to enlist as soon as he'd been old enough.

Steve had laughed and said that if he'd been such a fine example of American values, it wouldn't have taken him five attempts to get in.

That was it. That was the final number. Clint grinned and hopped off the bed, Bird letting out a startled chirrup at the sudden movement, jumping down to the floor with a frantic flutter of wings.

He typed the numbers carefully, 1265, and the keypad beeped happily and ceased to glow. The door cracked open, swinging out on its hinges into the corridor and Clint grinned at Bird.

"See, I told you I could do it."

Carefully, he moved towards the door at the end of the holding cell bay. There was no way of knowing what was on the other side, and Clint only prayed that it wasn't another one of those four-headed lizards.

He opened the door and stepped through.


	6. Chapter 6

The Right Path Part 6

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

~*~ denotes a shift from reality to dreams/flashbacks

**Warning: **This chapter contains kidnapping, non-graphic reference to torture and the withdrawal effects of involuntary drug experimentation.

* * *

"The hell?"

He was back in the range, his arrows still protruding proudly from the centre of each target. As he stepped into the room, the door swung closed behind him with a bang, followed by a softer thud, but Clint barely even noticed. His attention was on his bow, which lay carelessly discarded on the ground, and his fingers itched with the desire to pick it up, to let loose a few arrows and release the frustration that had been steadily building inside of him as he'd taken turn after turn and gotten absolutely nowhere. He knew he needed to keep going, to try and find a way through this maze. But he'd been trying for days now. What was another half hour—an hour tops—to allow himself this opportunity to centre his thoughts?

He didn't know how many arrows he'd fired, if it was four or twenty, when he heard a noise behind him.

"You know all the junior agents are scared to come in…" Nat was casual and almost relaxed as she entered the range despite knowing that Clint had a bad habit of 'shoot first, ask questions later' when someone startled him. But when she glanced up from the tablet she'd been flicking through, she stopped dead in her tracks. Clint didn't think he'd ever seen her looking so vulnerable and unguarded as fear and worry flickered openly across her pretty face.

"Tasha?" he asked, but she didn't even glance at him. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the ground at his feet.

"Clint?" she almost whispered, and Clint had to step back as she dropped to her knees in front of him. He was officially freaked out when he glanced down and saw what had obviously upset her.

It was him.

His body was sprawled across the floor of the range. A replica of the bow in his hand dropped uselessly beside the doppelganger on the ground, just out of reach of the other Clint's hand. He couldn't see any sign of injury or blood, but Clint would never have been so careless with his favourite bow. Obviously something was wrong here. He reached down to reassure her that he was just fine, but his hand slipped through her, as if she was a ghost or projection.

"Get a medic down to range four, immediately," Nat snapped into her communicator, not even waiting for the medics to respond before she leaned over the body on the ground, nimble fingers searching for injuries. Clint swore he could feel the ghost of her fingers against his own neck as she checked his double for a pulse.

"Dammit, Barton, this better not be a joke. If it is, you'll wish I'd let you die in Budapest." She was shaking him slightly, but the eyes on his body remained stubbornly closed. Nat looked more afraid than Clint had ever seen her.

"Wake up, Clint."

The air seemed to shimmer around them and suddenly the range disappeared only to be replaced with an isolated ward in medical. Natasha was there with the still unconscious other-Clint on a bed. He was showing no sign of waking. There were two doctors walking around his bed, frowning at their clipboards with an eerie symmetry. Natasha was glaring at both of them from her place in a chair next to one side of the bed.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked when neither of the doctors spoke. They glanced at each other, and there was a moment's pause before one of them made a sudden dash for the exit. The remaining doctor sighed and squared his shoulders.

"As far as we can tell, ma'am, there's nothing wrong with Agent Barton. There are no visible wounds or signs of struggle, nothing at all to suggest that Agent Barton isn't in perfect physical form."

"Then why is it that my best marksman is wasting space in your medical bay, doctor?" Fury demanded as he appeared in the room and the doctor flinched harshly in response.

"We don't know, Director Fury. We're running as many tests as we can, but they're all coming back negative. He just isn't waking up." The doctor quivered under the weight of Natasha and Fury's combined glares. "I'll just go see if the nurse has gotten back the results from the tox screen," the poor man said and promptly fled the room.

Clint watched as Fury walked over and placed a hand on Natasha's shoulder. She didn't flinch, just kept watching Clint's unconscious form.

"They'll work it out. You know I only hire the best," Fury said and Natasha nodded her agreement.

There was no warning as the scene dissolved around him, only for Bruce and Thor to materialise in Nat's place. Their expressions were pinched with worry, and even Thor's normally endless exuberance seemed to have waned.

"This mystery behind our Shield brothers' illness troubles. I fear that there is dark sorcery afoot."

"Could it be your brother?" Bruce was frowning and his fingers were playing with the edge of his shirt, a nervous habit Clint had often seen when Bruce was frustrated or couldn't make his science work.

"Nay. Loki is bound by iron and under constant watch. Such a feat at present is beyond his capabilities." Thor shook his head, his face gaining that extra sad, kicked puppy-look that came out every time Loki was mentioned.

"Both of them came in contact with Loki's spear. Could there be some lingering effects?"

"It is possible that the staff helped facilitate the bond, but I can sense there is a lingering residual energy that is _not_ from the staff. There are signs of someone else's meddling hands, and the signature of this magic is definitely from Asgard, although I do not recognise it."

"If it's a spell, then surely it can be broken?"

"The exact nature of the spell is unknown, and it is hindering our attempts to find the counter-curse. I shall return to Asgard and consult with my mother. She is amongst the strongest of our magic wielders."

"Let us know if there's anything we can do to help."

"Fear not, we will get our Shield brothers back."

Clint didn't get to hear Bruce's response to that, because the scene flickered, and Bruce and Thor disappeared, like someone had cut the power to a projector.

"No change. What the hell does that even mean?" Steve's voice was startlingly loud behind Clint, and he spun on his heel to see Steve storming out of an elevator. Stark was leaning up against a wall, trying to look casual, but Clint could see the way that his fingers were drumming against the wall in frustrated impatience.

"It means he doesn't have a clue as to what's wrong with Barton."

"What?"

"I got Jarvis to hack the range footage. He was fine, well as fine as he could be with his insomnia and guilt and maladaptive coping mechanisms, but whatever. He just keeled over between shots. Nothing entered the range, tox screens are all clear, and to the best of SHIELD's knowledge he had no long-term medical issues," Stark rattled off, and Clint frowned slightly. He'd read Clint's file. It was understandable given the circumstances, but it still felt wrong. There were things in there that Clint didn't want anyone but Phil seeing.

"So what's wrong with him?"

"Best bet? Magic," Stark spat, and the word dripped with obvious disdain. Clint had to agree with him there: magic sucked.

"First Agent Coulson, now Clint. There's something suspicious going on here."

"I know, Cap. I think it's about time we went and paid Fury a visit. Don't you?" Stark said, pushing himself off the wall, striding towards the elevator with a distinct sense of purpose. Steve followed after him, his shoulders set with determination, and Clint almost felt sorry for Fury. Almost.

The scene changed again, and it took Clint a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. He was startled to find himself in the apartment that he shared with Phil.

A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned to see one of the closed windows slowly being eased up from the outside. Natasha entered, as silent and graceful as the ninja Clint knew she was. She glanced around carefully, looking for weak points or other intruders and finding nothing. When she was sure that she was alone, it was as though a switch had been flicked.

Clint had never seen Nat look so vulnerable. There was a pain and sadness etched across her features as she crept through their apartment. She wound up in the bedroom, and Clint watched as she pulled on one of Clint's old jumpers. She plucked a photo of the three of them from Phil's nightstand and went to sit on the bed.

"You bastards," she muttered, so quietly that Clint almost missed it. The picture was pulled closer to her chest and she curled up around it. "Don't leave me alone."

Clint wanted to reach out and hug her, but he couldn't. Even if he could, if she had known he was watching this, she'd kill him herself.

"What is this?" he asked, tiredly.

He didn't take his eyes off of the way that Natasha had curled herself up in the middle of _their_ bed, but he had felt the shift of the air behind him and knew that he was no longer alone. The images in front of him flickered like a bad projection before fading entirely, and Clint was back on the range where he'd started.

"Oh, dear heart: that was reality." Her cold laughter echoed through the empty range and Clint's heart clenched at the sound. He kept facing the blank space, struggling to compose his expression. He refused to give this bitch the satisfaction of seeing him unmade.

"Why did you show me that?" he hissed, the words spilling forth angrily through gritted teeth. He was sick of this maze. He was sick of going around in circles, of wasting time while the Avengers worried and Phil was lying in a goddamn quarantine bay alone.

"I was feeling generous. You've been wandering around this place for days now and you've gotten no closer to finding the heart of SHIELD. It's kind of pathetic, really." A graceful hand rose to caress the side of his face as the blonde-and-leggy woman from earlier came into his line of sight. Clint's fingers clenched around the head of the arrow he was holding by his side. One wrong move, just one, and Clint would jam it through her throat in a heartbeat.

"Poor little hawk, you can't even find your way through one itty bitty maze. I thought I'd see if you were ready to go home. It's a one-time offer only, though. Return now or don't return until you've completed your task."

There was a moment of hesitation that Clint would hate himself for later. But all he could picture in his head was an eternity of wandering the empty SHIELD corridors alone, never finding Phil and never going home, until eventually he died of exhaustion or starvation.

There was a loud squawk, followed by a metal clang. Clint turned around, trying to find the source of the noise, and saw Bird trapped behind a grate in the vents, looking absolutely miserable. Ignoring the blonde woman for a moment, Clint moved to help his friend. The grate was dented outwards as if Bird had tried to ram his way out of it, and Clint felt a pang of guilt for leaving him behind. He'd barely even noticed he was alone once he'd reached the range.

Carefully, he pried the grate free, holding his hands out for Bird to hop into. Bird's feathers were rumpled and dirty, and he appeared to be exhausted, closing his eyes with a relieved tweet when Clint's hands curled around his small frame. Clint's fingers gently smoothed the feathers out as he turned back to the blonde who was staring at Bird with a look of utter disdain.

"Ugh, you again! I do not know what you hope to accomplish, hopping around after him like that," she exclaimed unpleasantly, and Clint shifted Bird closer to his chest for protection. The blonde sighed. "No matter. It will make no difference in the end. Make your choice, little hawk. I will not ask again."

Clint hesitated before, but now he felt his resolve strengthen. Clint remembered what the past forty days had been like. The empty spaces and holes in Clint's life that had been like gaping wounds ever since Natasha had pulled him aside after the battle with the Chitauri.

"I'm not leaving without Phil."

"Of course you're not." Her smile was patronising, grating on Clint's nerves, and he forced a blank expression onto his face that would have made Phil proud. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him riled up. "How are you liking my maze so far, little hawk?"

"Piece of cake," he lied with a bravado he didn't feel, but she merely raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"Well then, I suppose you won't mind if we make things a little more interesting. Let's put a time limit on it, shall we? Say… twelve more hours to solve the maze?"

"What?" Clint sputtered, wanting to protest at this sudden change of rules, but she'd already vanished.

"Tick tock, little hawk," her disembodied voice lingered for a moment longer, and then it was just Clint and Bird alone on the range.

Clint shouldered his bow and quiver, relieved to find that they hadn't disappeared this time. Just to check, he moved to the door, and sure enough, there was the beginning of the never-ending corridors stretching in both directions.

He didn't have time to start over again.

He was struggling to come up with a game plan when a metallic scraping noise startled him, his hand automatically reaching for an arrow as he turned to find Bird next to the metal grate covering a ventilation access point. Clint smiled.

The vents.

Given how much time he spent in them on a regular basis, he was surprised he hadn't thought of it earlier. There was no guarantee that it would work any better than the normal corridors, but it was worth a shot.

He pried the grate off of the access point and pulled himself in with a practised ease. The cool enclosed metal was familiar and almost comforting and Clint felt a sudden surge of confidence.

"You coming?" he shouted back to Bird. Bird answered with a tweet, and the sound of his talons clicked softly against the metal. Clint grinned and started to crawl, humming softly as he went.

~cc~

Clint had been in love with Phil Coulson for years. He'd hidden it as much as he could, tried to remain professional, but he knew that whenever the other man was in the room, Clint's eyes would unconsciously track his movements, and just being able to get a reaction out of the man brought a smile to Clint's face. Coulson was a figure of awe amongst the lower echelons of SHIELD and his time was valuable. Yet, he always made sure to get Clint's opinion on mission intel, and he'd even come down to the range and dragged him to the cafeteria for food on occasion He never objected when Clint did his paperwork on the couch in his office, and Clint knew that on missions there was no one else Phil trusted to make sure that he got home. It was the closest Clint had ever come to friendship and he was content to leave it at that.

Everything changed in Tokyo.

Clint was fairly sure that the entire team that had been responsible for the intel on that particular mission had been assigned to a six-month rotation on SHIELD's Arctic project after everything had gone down. Personally, Clint thought it was well deserved.

Clint had been two days into a simple infiltration project when his target was shot through the head at a perfectly normal board meeting and Clint had felt something sharp hit his arm not half a second later.

"Tranq dart," he murmured in surprise as the world went black, his body falling from his perch and crashing onto the boardroom table.

He'd come to in a cell: the type they had in dodgy Hollywood movies that had a distinctly grungy, uncomfortable feel about them. Clint's head was still fuzzy from whatever drugs they'd used to knock him out and it took him a moment to notice Coulson.

Coulson was sitting next to the bed with his body turned towards the doorway, ready for whatever came for them next. There was a trail of blood down the side of his face and a bandage wrapped around his left leg. They'd been in worse situations, but usually they'd know whom they were dealing with and their backup would be on its way well before they ran into trouble. This was different though. No one would even know they were missing until they failed to check in by Friday, four days away.

"You okay, boss?" Clint asked slowly, the words not coming as easily as they usually did. Coulson moved so that he was facing Clint, his face set in an expression that Clint recognised from too many post-op medical exams. "'m fine, Coulson," he slurred.

"No, you're not. They injected you with an unknown substance. You've been out the entire two days we've been here," Coulson stated with no hint of amusement. Clint was fairly sure that meant Coulson had been worried. When Clint sat up, Coulson handed him a battered looking cup with some water in it. "You've got to get your strength back up so we can get out of here."

"Aww, Coulson, I didn't know you cared." Clint smiled teasingly at the other man and watched Coulson shake his head in exasperation.

"Maybe I just don't want to have to carry you out of here," Coulson said, and there was that wry amusement that Clint loved so much.

"Are you calling me fat? That hurts, Coulson. Really, it gets me right here." Clint held both hands over his heart and made an overly exaggerated pained expression. Coulson almost laughed at that.

"Seriously though, boss, where are we?" Clint asked and let the amusement fade away.

"Hard to tell. They knocked me out when they brought us in. But I did catch a glimpse of the octo-skull logo on the way in, so it's fairly safe to assume Hydra's responsible."

There was a noise outside their cell, a door grinding open somewhere down the hall followed by the sounds of heavy boots against the concrete floors. Three men appeared in the cell doorway. The middle one was a small, wiry guy with mousy brown hair and a moustache, made that much smaller when flanked by the two heavy weights at his side who were definitely more muscle than brains.

"You are agents of SHIELD, yes? We have heard much about this SHIELD of America and how you'd like to put a stop to the mighty Hydra." The man chuckled, but didn't seem to want a response. "Cut off one head and two more will take its place."

"Hail Hydra," the two muscle heads echoed, and Clint couldn't help a small laugh.

"You may laugh now, but we'll see who is laughing soon." The man's eyes narrowed before he focused on Coulson. "You. You are in charge, yes? You shall give us the coordinates of all of SHIELD's operations."

"SHIELD agents do not negotiate with terrorists," Coulson's voice was hard and unwavering as he spat out the policy line.

"Of course, of course. But we have been watching, and we have seen how you watch your friend. Are your SHIELD secrets more important than his safety? More important than his life?"

Clint let out another laugh at that. "Me? You're betting on me? Sorry to tell you this guys, but I'm just the marksman. I'm barely even worth the irritation of having to deal with me."

"We will see. For your sake, I hope you're wrong." The man smirked at him and clicked his fingers. One of the big men was suddenly there, pulling Clint off the bed while the other held Phil back. The sudden change of altitude made Clint's head spin a little, and he frowned as he was pulled out of the room.

"Don't tell them anything, Coulson. I can take it." He thought he saw Phil nod.

They took him to a room that looked not unfamiliar to SHIELD's medical bay. He was tied to a chair with leather restraints and then the muscle backed off a ways to let their leader take over. There was a camera set up directly in front of him and the short man pointed it out with a gleeful grin. "Smile for your friend."

"I'm hoping that you're right about your friend. I'm a scientist you know, but lately I've been unable to find willing volunteers. I have a brand new serum that needs testing. But I digress, I suppose it's best to start with the basics?" The man smiled and raised his scalpel towards Clint.

What happened next, Clint had tried very, very hard to block from memory and for the most part, he'd succeeded.

When Clint was returned to the cell, Coulson's face was a pale shade of white, but he was quick to catch Clint when the guards pitched him carelessly into the cell. Clint knew he was bleeding from at least two shallow cuts on his arms and one of his fingers was bent at a very awkward angle. They'd injected something into his arm approximately an hour ago and he was starting to shake. Coulson shifted him onto the bed and held him steady as the shakes turned into a full-blown seizure, his body painfully spasming outside his control.

Clint let out a pitiful moan as the seizures finally eased and he tried to pull his legs up to his chest only for a sharp pain to shoot through his body from the movement. His vision spun slightly, but he wasn't sure if that was the pain, the blood loss, or the drugs.

"Barton?" Clint struggled to focus on the gentle voice, and it took some time before his vision cleared and he could make out Coulson's worried face. "Clint?"

"Mmm 'm fine, sir," he murmured, but Coulson still looked worried.

"No, you aren't," he disagreed, and Clint mentally acknowledge that he really wasn't. But he would be fine, and at least it was him, not Coulson. He was replaceable, he'd always known that.

Coulson was frowning at him now. Clint didn't like it when Coulson frowned. He was much more handsome with that little half smirk he got when he found Clint amusing.

Coulson made a small choking noise that caught Clint's attention. "Clint, you are not replaceable!"

"Uh huh." Clint nodded as he tried to ignore the pain in his head and the way his eyes were drooping. Clint had always thought there might be some truth to the rumours that Coulson could read minds. Now he had proof. God, that was hot.

"I can't read minds. You're talking out loud." Coulson's expression was a combination of surprise and contemplation.

"Oh." Clint was fairly sure he'd just turned bright red, and he tried again to hug his knees to his chest, ignoring the pain. He didn't think he could feel more miserable.

"You've been drugged, Clint - I'm not about to hold anything you say against you. But we may need to have a conversation later once you're yourself again." Coulson's voice was warm and gentle.

"Yes, sir."

"You can call me Phil if you want to," Phil offered, and Clint felt a sense of warmth seep into him even as his eyelids more drooped heavily.

"Sleep, Clint. I'll take first watch."

They came for Clint the next day as well, and the next, until it was almost a routine. Whatever they were giving him kept him in a permanent haze, but did nothing to dull the pain that cut through it like a hot knife through butter. Sometimes he hallucinated, other times there were shakes and nausea, and on one occasion, the worst night terrors Clint had ever lived through.

The only constant was Phil's gentle voice and warm touch.

And then one day they didn't come for Clint. There were no injections or bruises or burns, only Phil's arms cautiously wrapped around his waist, giving him what comfort he could. There was no food either, but Clint was just so grateful for the reprieve that he could ignore the rumblings of his stomach.

They didn't come the next day either, and that was when the trouble started. Clint's hand developed a slight tremble and even if they'd been given food, Clint wouldn't have been able to keep it down. Phil's voice was a soothing whisper in his ear as he tried to get Clint to drink some of the precious water supply.

By day three, Clint was in full-blown withdrawals. Whatever they'd been injecting him with had obviously been highly addictive. His body seized and shivered and shook and he curled closer to Phil's body, trying to siphon off some of his warmth.

"It's okay, Clint. I've got you." The words were soft and gentle and Clint smiled through a shudder.

"Love you, Phil." The words slipped out uncensored, and Clint didn't even want to take them back.

Day four was when SHIELD finally found them, and they were both quickly whisked off to medical. Phil was released after an hour with only a mild case of dehydration and strict instructions to eat regularly until he got his appetite back. Clint was in medical for two days as they tried to purge his body of whatever drug cocktail he'd been given.

It took a while before Clint felt like himself again, but when he did a sense of mortification crept over him. Phil—Coulson—knew. Clint had hidden his feelings for so long and now Coulson knew. Clint exhaled slowly, trying to resist the urge to panic. He didn't want to go back to working with other handlers. He didn't think he could handle it if Coulson transferred him to someone else.

What if they wanted him to leave SHIELD? He knew there were anti-fraternisation regulations and he wasn't sure what SHIELD's stance was on same-sex relationships. He couldn't go back to working on the streets. He couldn't. His breath hitched in his throat and he felt as though all of a sudden he couldn't breathe, he couldn't draw in enough air to fill his lungs. The shallow gasps his body was making just weren't enough.

"Breathe, Clint. You're okay, we're both okay. Just breathe."

Clint was used to obeying that voice and he slowed his breathing almost automatically. The panic faded a little as he drew in a couple of deep breaths. Coulson sat in the chair next to Clint's bed, his hand resting on the bed as if he wanted to reach out but wasn't sure if he could.

"Sir?" Clint was struggling to make sense of the situation. Coulson was here. He wasn't avoiding Clint. Maybe he'd come to tell Clint he'd been transferred? But there were no forms or folders, just Coulson with his ever-present patient expression.

"The doctors said you were feeling better."

"Yes, sir. They're going to let me out later today," Clint tried.

"No, they're letting you out tomorrow. Unless someone agrees to supervise you and make sure you stay off the range until you're fingers mend." Coulson smiled then, and Clint decided it was a good look for him. "I was thinking maybe you'd like me to spring you free. Unless you had someone else in mind of course."

There was something about Phil's tone that made Clint pause carefully before responding. Clint couldn't read the exact inflection, but he knew, somehow, that this wasn't an ordinary offer.

"No way I could refuse an offer like that," Clint said with a careful smile. "But why, Coulson? You never bust me out of medical until I'm clear to return to duty."

"You said some things back there. I know it was probably the drugs talking, but my Dad used to say that there is always truth in a drunk man's rambling. And I think perhaps we've been dancing around each other for far too long."

"Sir, are you saying…"

"It's Phil. And yes, yes I am. If you want to."

"I want to. God knows I want to," Clint admitted eagerly, and Phil laughed—an actual laugh! Damn, Clint wanted to make him do that every day for the rest of his life.

"Good. Now let's see what we can do about getting you out of here."

~cc~

Clint was brought back to reality as his fingers hit a bump in the smooth metal of the ventilation shaft. Cautiously, he moved his hand forward and traced the edge of the metal. He found a cog halfway through and as he pushed at it, metal slats opened in front of him and light crept into the dark shaft.

His fingers closed on a ventilation grate, the first in a long time, and somehow, Clint knew this was it. Sliding the grate to one side, he wriggled so that he was above the hole. The light from the corridor below highlighted his face and Bird's tiny form.

"Here we go."

With a silent prayer to whoever was listening, Clint dropped from the vent.


	7. Chapter 7

The Right Path Part 7

Disclaimer: I own nothing recognisable.

~cc~ denotes a shift between reality and dreams/flashbacks

* * *

There at the end of the corridor was Phil's office. It was glowing an eerie blue that Clint was sure wasn't entirely cast by the computer monitor. And there, behind the desk, was Phil Coulson. The scene was as familiar to Clint as his own reflection.

Phil had a natural tendency towards perfectionism and commitment. His time at SHIELD had built on those qualities until his dedication and competence had become an art form. It was one of those things that had drawn Clint to Phil in the first place. Their entire relationship had been characterised by late nights in Phil's office, filling out mission reports and requisition forms.

Of course it, went both ways. There were plenty of nights where Phil had to drag Clint off the range from too many hours of practice, the need for food and sleep forgotten as his body fell into an easy rhythm of _nock, draw, release_.

Cautiously, Clint made his way forward, more wary than ever of any sudden traps now that the end was in sight. He made it to the end of the corridor and let himself grin, relieved as he raised his hand and knocked on Phil's door.

"Come in."

"Phil," Clint exhaled, and it was as if all the tension in his body was drawn out of him in his relief. Phil stood behind his desk as Clint moved further into the room, completely intent on wrapping his arms around his husband and never let him go.

"We're at work, Barton," and there was something off about the way that sounded. Cool and distant, in a way that Phil never was with Clint. A loud, indignant squawk came from behind him and he turned to see Bird pressed flat against the empty air in the open doorway. Clint's hands were already reaching for his bow.

There was a malevolent giggling sound that sent shivers down his spine, and he turned in time to see 'Phil's' face morph into an inhuman grin, taking on a greenish tinge. His legs went one way, and his torso appeared to start an argument with itself as it tried to get out of the suit.

Clint's arrow pierced one of the legs and it squealed in pain as it scampered into a vent. Bird was still screeching, and it only added to the horrid sinking feeling Clint could feel building in his chest as he tried to return to the corridor outside—only to find that the blue light surrounding the office was suddenly impenetrable.

A cold, high-pitched cackle echoed through the room and Clint didn't even hesitate this time. He let the arrow fly in the direction he'd heard the sound even as he turned. He was just in time to see it go straight through the bitch.

She was smiling now, cold and hard like diamond, and Clint didn't know how he had ever thought she was beautiful. This woman in front of him was nothing but pure evil.

"Who are you?"

"I am Amora of Asgard, little hawk. The most powerful enchantress in all of the nine realms." She moved closer and he let another arrow fly in response. It passed harmlessly through her, and she shook her head with a sigh. His bow vanished into smoke in his hands.

"What have you done? Where's Phil?" Clint demanded, fighting off the growing sense of dread. What if this had all been for nothing? What if Phil had never been there at all?

"Things aren't what they seem here. I thought you'd have learnt that by now," she laughed, a haunting sound that made Clint's blood run cold. He gritted his teeth and said nothing, refusing to give her the satisfaction. "You really didn't know? Oh my, how delightful. To think, all this time, your precious Phil was right in front of you."

She snapped her fingers and Bird let out a high-pitched scream of pain from the doorway. Clint was forced to watch as Bird's form contorted and twisted, growing larger and shedding feathers as the primal screech turned into a very human scream. Clint rushed forward even before his mind had fully realised what was happening, but didn't get far before he hit the strange blue wall again.

Phil stood there, chest heaving wildly as he drew in large gulps of air, a light sheen of sweat covering his forehead, and Clint's heart clenched, knowing how painful the transformation must have been for Phil to look so affected. His husband was dressed as impeccably as always, decked out in his favourite Dolce suit. A soft, sad smile settled on Phil's face as he reached up and pressed a hand flat against the blue light. His lips formed the shape of Clint's name, but Clint couldn't hear the words.

He turned towards Amora, looking her over for a brief moment for any hint of a weak spot. He'd only get one shot at this. Even as he lurched forward, readying a kick to her knees, she raised a hand and he stopped up short. He was frozen in place, couldn't move so much as a muscle.

"There is magic in souls. Thor and the others all laughed at me, but they do not see what I see. Each soul is so unique and beautiful," she commented offhandedly. Her fingers reached out and caressed Clint's face, and her gaze was disturbingly possessive. Clint's eyes met Phil's, and he wished there was something he could do to erase the horrified look on his husband's face. Amora turned Clint's head so that he was looking at her and she smiled at him.

"And your soul shines so very brightly. You would sacrifice yourself in a heartbeat for those you love." Her hand moved down so that it was resting on his heart, and he could feel it, like a heavy weight, as his chest rose and fell with each breath.

"But they never love you, do they, Clint? Everyone leaves you: your parents, your brother, the circus that you had made your home. They all leave you in the end. Not a single person has loved you enough to stay."

Clint flinched under the weight of her words. He'd kept those thoughts locked in the back of his mind for so long now, trying not to think of them except to remind himself that he can make it through anything. But they weren't true anymore, not really.

"Phil…" Clint started, but she cut him off with a cruel laugh.

"He left you, too. He went up against a god, armed only with a mortal weapon. He knew it would be suicide. He wanted to get away from you so badly that he was willing to die to do it. But I am different."

"What?" Clint's mind was racing now, trying to come up with a way to get out of here. He had no weapons, limited intel, and his partner was being held hostage. The situation could probably be worse, but it was hard to imagine how right then. The stirrings of an idea edged its way towards the front of Clint's mind while Amora spoke. Phil wasn't going to like it though.

"You and me, Clint, just imagine it. I would never leave you. Together we could be a force more powerful than any the realms have ever seen. They would all see how wrong they were to deny us, and we'd make them all pay. All you have to do is say yes."

Phil was shaking his head violently by this point, but Clint couldn't meet his eyes.

"What about Phil? What happens to Phil if I say yes? Will you let him go and put him back in his own body?" Clint asked, because if there was a guaranteed way to ensure that Phil survived, even if it meant that Clint lost everything, he'd take it. Amora face faltered for a brief moment before she smiled at him.

"Well, I was going to collect the pair, but if that's what you want I suppose I could manage that. All you have to do is say yes, darling, and your Phil will be alive and well and you and I will be together." Clint flinched a little, and he couldn't help but hesitate. The pause seemed to make her angry.

"Or you can wander around here for all eternity. Alone and slowly going mad. I can make it so that you will never find each other again. Is that what you want? It's easy, Clint, say yes and there will be no more pain or misery." There was a hint of desperation in her voice now, and something in Clint's mind clicked.

The reasoning behind Amora's sickly sweet attitude and rambling monologue was suddenly obvious. She needed Clint, and not just in a complete your collection of superhero souls type of way.

"You can't." Clint's eyes widened and he felt the magic running through him falter. He wriggled his fingers experimentally before he continued. He was right. He had to be. "You can't make me."

"Of course I can. Your feeble mortal mind can't even begin to comprehend the magic that I command."

"Maybe not. But you need my permission." His confidence grew as the rest of his body loosened and he took a step towards Amora, taking pleasure in the hint of fear that had crept onto her face. "Because that's what you want, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. If you won't take my offer, I will simply leave you here to rot for all eternity."

Clint thought of the maze of familiar SHIELD corridors, and how with each challenge, he'd known the answer. Everything was distorted and taken out of context, but there'd been nothing truly unfamiliar and Clint's resolve strengthened further.

"No, you won't. Because I know where we are now. This world is pieced together from memories: Phil's and mine. This is ours, and here…" He reached past her, and the glowing blue barrier disappeared at his touch. His hand wrapped around Phil's outreached fingers, warm and solid, and Clint smiled. "My power is as great as yours. And. I. Am. Taking. My. Husband. Home!"

Amora screamed in rage as the world around Clint fractured and shattered like a broken mirror. He was falling, falling through darkness, with Phil's hand tightly wrapped in his.

~cc~

Clint woke to the familiar, steady beep of a heart monitor and the buzz of human life. He drew in a deep breath, savouring the fact that he was apparently home. The right dimension at any rate, he wasn't sure he'd go quite as far as to call SHIELD medical home.

The first thing he saw when he blinked open his eyes was Natasha. She smiled briefly at him and then punched him in the arm. Hard.

"Ow, Tasha. What was that for?"

"Don't do that again," she said simply.

"We were worried about you, Clint," Steve Rogers' voice came from the doorway. He was standing there in jeans and a button down shirt and Clint could see Bruce, Thor and Tony behind him.

"Good to see you awake, Barton," Stark added with a grin. "You've been missing out on all of the fun."

"Oh no, how will I ever live with the disappointment?" Clint deadpanned because he wasn't going to apologise. He hadn't wanted to worry them, but if he had to go back to that night on the range, he'd make the same choice.

"Phil. Where's Phil?" Clint asked suddenly as he realised that the other man wasn't there. Maybe it hadn't worked after all? Maybe Phil was still in another medical ward and he was waking up alone? There was an awkward moment where the others looked at each other and then refused to meet his eye. But then Tony gave Steve a small push towards the bed and Steve let out an undignified yelp of surprise.

"You're team captain, Cap," Tony said when Steve glared at him. Steve looked towards Nat and Bruce who shook their heads and Clint's heart was sinking fast. Steve finally seemed to find his resolve.

"Do you remember Manhattan, Clint? The Chitauri?"

"Yes? What's that got to do with anything?"

"Agent Coulson was severely injured by an unknown weapon…"

"Steve, I know all this," Clint interrupted, and Steve looked relieved. "Where is he now? Has there been any change?"

"No change. I'm sorry, Clint. We did manage to get in to see him, but it's just like Fury said: his chest is healing, but he won't wake up. There's nothing else they can do. I wouldn't let them call it, though. Figured you'd want to say goodbye first." Steve looked sad and apologetic, but decidedly resigned, as if he'd thought it over and couldn't see another option.

"What? No!" Clint felt panic rising within him. They couldn't do that, not to Phil. But no one else seemed surprised at what Steve had said and they were giving Clint those pitying looks he'd received far too often as a kid.

"We're not killing Phil," Clint spat, and Steve visibly flinched. Tony stepped forward.

"Cut it out, Barton. It's not like anyone wanted this."

"It's not really him, Clint," Natasha added quietly, breaking through Clint and Tony's glaring match as she placed her hand on his arm. "You haven't seen him, Clint. It's just an empty shell that machines are keeping alive. Thor said that his soul was gone."

Clint pulled his arm away from her as if she'd burned him, and tried to ignore the painful sense of betrayal. He'd have thought Nat would have been on his side, even if everyone else was against him. But her words were stuck in his head now, and he couldn't shake the terrifying echo. _His soul was gone._

"Let me see him." It wasn't a question and Clint was already pulling out the IV drip from the back of his hand. He wasn't about to lie there when he could be by Phil's side where he belonged.

"Clint. You've been unconscious for almost a week now. You need to rest," Bruce said with a worried frown.

"I'll rest once I've seen Phil," he said, knowing that SHIELD had brought the whole team up to speed on Clint's history of escaping medical under the watchful eyes of SHIELD's best medical staff. There was an awkward pause and Clint could almost see the point where they realised that trying to keep him there would be more trouble than it was worth.

Clint would have smirked if he wasn't so angry, and instead focussed on freeing himself from the medical equipment. Slowly, he got to his feet, glaring at anyone who tried to help him, and he was relieved when his legs held his weight. He felt a little shaky, but then most people who'd spent a week unconscious probably did, and after a couple of steps he evened out.

"Where is he?"

"Two doors down. He's no longer quarantined," Bruce said quietly, and nobody met his eye as he stormed out.

Clint made it as far as the door before he froze. His hand trembled over the handle and he drew in a shaky breath. What if Phil didn't wake up? Maybe it hadn't worked, or maybe he'd dreamt the whole damn thing. In the harsh light of SHIELD medical, the maze suddenly seemed distant and unreal.

The others came up behind him and Natasha wrapped her fingers around Clint's and helped him push the handle down. Clint wasn't sure if he wanted to thank her or punch her, but the door swung open and Clint could see into the room, make out the bed and the still figure lying there. He could see Phil.

It felt as if all the air rushed out of the room, leaving Clint struggling to breathe. The solid weight of Steve's hand pressed against Clint's shoulder, trying to reassure him. Phil wasn't moving, didn't even seem to stir, and that wasn't like him at all. He'd usually be alert with weapon in hand as soon as someone unexpected entered the room. To see him so still was unnatural.

"My friends, we may have made our assessment in haste," Thor announced, moving past Clint and into the room. He approached Phil with a look of concentration. He beamed at them after a moment.

"What is it, Thor?" Steve asked.

"Foul magic still lingers here, but I can feel the brave presence of the Son of Coul's soul that has long been absent. He is nearby." Thor smiled at Clint and clapped a hand on his shoulder hard enough for Clint to wince. "Perhaps hope is not altogether lost."

Clint forced himself further into the room with his eyes firmly fixed on the bed. Phil was paler and thinner than Clint had ever seen. Normally it would be Clint in medical, lying unconscious after a mission, and Clint felt unbalanced with their roles reversed.

"Hey, Phil," he muttered quietly, conscious of the fact that they had an audience. As he reached the bedside, Clint pulled Phil's hand into his own and tried not to flinch at how cool it was.

"I need you to wake up now. Thor says you're around, so I figure you can hear me." Clint's voice trembled and he glared at Tony, daring him to comment. Nobody said anything and so Clint tried to forget about them.

"Don't you dare leave me, not now," Clint murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to Phil's forehead before he started to pull away. He froze as Phil's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. He didn't move for at least a minute, but still Phil didn't wake. Clint released the breath he'd been holding with a disappointed sigh.

He placed a gentle kiss against Phil's lips before he turned to face the others with a defiant look on his face. He didn't care if he had to sit there for the rest of his life, they weren't getting to Phil. But the others weren't looking at him, their attention on the bed beside him. The previously limp hand in his twitched and then wrapped itself around Clint's fingers and squeezed.

"Clint." The word was rasped out and barely comprehensible, but Phil's grip on Clint's hand tightened. Clint spun his head around so fast he almost got whiplash to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. There was a moment of stunned silence as the entire team took in the sight of Phil Coulson awake and blinking at them. Then it erupted.

Bruce rambled about science and logic while Natasha called for the doctor. Tony seemed to have decided that they never should have believed the doctors and it was all Steve's fault for not keeping up team morale. Which was blatantly unfair, but Steve rose to the bait because if there was one thing Tony was good at, it was getting a reaction out of the normally even-tempered Captain. Thor boomed loud praises to gods that Clint had never heard of. Phil flinched a little at the sudden onslaught. His eyes locked on Clint's and Clint gave him a small smile.

"Hey," he murmured and watched as Phil mouthed the word back, too quiet to be heard over the din. Phil's hand squeezed Clint's just hard enough to be reassuring.

A pair of doctors bustled in quickly, taking samples and readings from both Clint and Phil with a perturbed expression. SHIELD's medical team hated magic even more than Clint did, and when they couldn't find a reason for the sudden waking of both their patients they hurried out again to look at their samples and try to find a scientific explanation.

"It is good to see you awake, Son of Coul! I cannot believe I did not think of it before, it is the most obvious solution!" Thor boomed as the doctors left and everyone turned to look at the demi-god.

"What is?" Bruce asked curiously.

"Surely, even in Midgard, it is known that a kiss from a soul's true love is the most powerful of all magic." Thor said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Phil let out a groan.

"Oh, God." Clint blushed bright red even as Tony smirked at him.

"Guess that totally makes Agent, here, Sleeping Beauty. Which would make you Prince Charming, Legolas. Are you Coulson's very own knight in shining Kevlar?"

"Shut up, Stark, or next time I'm in need of some target practice I'll put some new holes in your Bugatti."

"You do that, Hawkeye, and I'll get Jarvis to lock you out of the range."

"I can make my own targets just fine, Stark, and I don't think you'd like it much," Clint retorted, and there was something easy about the banter that Clint hadn't even realised was missing. There was no tension, no hollow feeling, because Phil was awake now, and Clint couldn't help the way he was beaming like an idiot.

"I think it might be best if we left these fellas alone for a bit," Steve said. He placed a hand on Tony's collar, fully prepared to forcibly remove the billionaire if it came to it. "It's good to see you awake, sir."

"Thank you, Captain."

The avengers all trailed out after Steve, muttering their own goodbyes to Phil. Natasha was last to leave, giving them a rare smile as she went.

There were hundreds of words that Clint had run through over the last few weeks, things he'd promised he'd say to Phil if he ever got the chance. But there was a lump in his throat and his tongue refused to form the words and he was so grateful to Phil's hand in his, a lifeline, warm and steady, tying Clint to reality.

"You're you," Phil stated eventually, his voice sounding so relieved that Clint felt a pang of guilt. He'd forgotten that the last Phil had known in this world, Clint had still been Loki's puppet.

"Nat got me back," Clint said quietly, and Phil nodded. Clint took a deep breath and continued: "We won, and Stark is trying to get the whole team to move into his tower. You've been out for nearly two months."

"Why are you in a medical gown?" Phil sounded equal parts worried and exasperated.

"I'm fine, Phil," Clint promised, and his husband just shot him a disbelieving look. "I am. There was magic involved, but I've still got my soul and you're awake now, so I'm going to call the mission a success, even if the blonde bitch got away."

"I thought I'd dreamt that," Phil said with a slightly stunned expression. "How?"

Clint needed more contact if he was going to tell that story; needed to be able to feel Phil alive beneath his fingers. Instead of answering Phil's question, he simply said, "Shove over."

Phil smiled and awkwardly moved until he was as far to one side as he could get without toppling out of the bed, and Clint took the opportunity to curl himself into the empty space. He cautiously wrapped his arms around Phil, watching his face for any hint of pain, but all he found was a warm, patient smile. Clint's head rested against Phil's shoulder and his whole body pressed up against Phil's.

"After Loki stabbed you, Fury told us you were dead…" Clint started and smiled at the way Phil frowned at that. Clint went on, filling Phil in on everything that had happened in the near two months that he had spent unconscious and quarantined. Clint's hand rested lightly on Phil's chest as he talked, and he could feel the steady rhythm of Phil's heart beneath his fingertips.

Phil was alive and exactly where he belonged. Clint wasn't an optimist and he knew the future would no doubt bring challenges and alien invasions and more missions that saw one or both of them wake up in medical. But with Phil awake and a team he trusted to help keep Phil safe, the future was starting to look bright.

~cc~

He first met Phil in India.

He was holed up in a dingy apartment above what he was fairly sure was a crack den. He hadn't exactly asked, just handed over his cash, paying more for their discretion than for the room itself.

He'd been with SHIELD about nine months by then, and he'd thought things were going great. Well, not great; Clint had too many issues with authority and regulations for great. Still, he had a roof over his head, was being paid a ridiculous amount of money for a kid who'd dropped out of school to join the circus, and had free access to a state of the art archery range. All in all, it had seemed like a sweet deal, and he'd been trying not to step on too many people's toes. But then he'd been sent out with Agent Mackenna, a nervous, twitchy man that made Clint's skin crawl. Mackenna had left him on the top of a hotel with his comm., some water, and a couple of sandwiches.

Five hours later, and the only time he'd heard from Mackenna was about half an hour ago, just to double check his location and remind him to hold steady. Something about it didn't quite sit right with Clint. Most of his previous handlers had checked in at least once an hour to make sure that Clint was okay and had all the supplies he needed. But it varied enough between handlers that he knew there wasn't a set time for check-ins, and maybe Mackenna was just a laid back, hands off kind of guy.

There was no sign of the target, but Clint could see a group of Americans starting to congregate to the right of the building. They weren't acting like tourists or businessmen, their faces grim, and their eyes kept flicking up to Clint's perch. Clint could spot their sidearms from his hideout, and that was just sloppy workmanship.

Clint could feel his instincts screaming at him that something was seriously wrong, here, and when the Americans entered the building, Clint packed up his gear and strapped everything to his back. Carefully, he climbed over the edge of the building and onto a windowsill below. The overhang on the roof jutted out just far enough that if Clint pressed himself close against the wall, he couldn't be seen from the roof.

He didn't have to wait long for the sound of the roof door opening. There was a moment of silence before voices broke out.

"Christ, Mickey, he's not even out here!" a man's voice sounded out, and Clint didn't allow himself to so much as breathe in case they heard him.

"Maybe he's taking a piss or something," a voice replied, sounding a tad defensive.

"Or maybe Jimmy's a lying piece of shit," a third man grumbled.

"If Mackenna says he's here then this is where he's supposed to be. The stupid kid is known for being insubordinate, maybe he wandered off," the second man commented, and Clint felt his stomach drop. He'd thought maybe they were mercenaries, the target's hired muscle or something. But they were talking about Mackenna like they were friends.

"What SHIELD wanted with a sniper that can't follow orders is beyond me. If we take him out, we'll be doing the world a favour," the second voice spoke, and the others laughed.

"Well, he's obviously abandoned his post. You guys want to hang around or go get a beer and come back later? SHIELD's paying after all." Clint's knuckles tightened on his perch and he gritted his teeth. Apparently, things with SHIELD weren't going as well as Clint had believed. He didn't think he'd done anything to warrant a death sentence, but apparently he had.

"No use standing up here all day. We'll come back in an hour: if he ain't here then, then he's probably abandoned his post completely," the first voice decided, and there was the sound of heavy footsteps as they took one last look around the roof before disappearing back into the building. Clint counted five minutes before swinging back up onto the roof.

"Well, shit," he muttered, already mentally running through his assets and trying to think through the fastest way out of the country. SHIELD was normally astonishingly competent when it came to tracking down its target. Clint could only hope that if he went underground fast enough and stayed hidden for long enough, they'd lose interest.

That had been a month ago in North Korea, and Clint had been on the move ever since, keeping a low profile and never staying long enough in one place to attract any unwanted attention. But two weeks earlier, in Thailand, he'd slipped up. He hadn't seen any sign of SHIELD since Mackenna and had foolishly eased up on his paranoia and contemplated that maybe, just maybe, they weren't pursuing him.

He'd been stepping out of a shop, the same one he'd been to for the past three days when he had spotted a man. He had been dressed in a smart suit and had a phone pressed close to his ear, looking like just another businessman out on a coffee run between meetings, except for the tense set of his shoulders and the outline of a weapon that Clint had been able to see underneath his jacket. Not to mention that as soon as Clint had stepped onto the street, the man's gaze had been firmly fixed on him. He'd been subtle, far from being completely obvious about it, but Clint had noticed.

He'd walked slowly towards the alleys, knowing they would lead him towards a marketplace that was normally crawling with people. It hadn't been perfect, but it helped him put some distance between him and his pursuer. The man had moved at a brisk pace, slightly faster than Clint's own gait, and Clint had tried to stifle the desire to panic and run.

The crowd had been a welcome relief. He'd ducked between people, carefully lifting a pair of sunglasses and a jacket as he'd gone. Occasionally, the crowd had shifted and he'd spotted the man still following. He'd managed to pick up a baseball cap from somewhere, and when he'd gotten a chance, he'd ducked behind another stall and pulled his new outfit on. He'd crawled along underneath a couple of tables before he'd slipped back into the crowd, looking for his tail.

He'd spotted him on the opposite side of the market, phone in hand and looking in the other direction. Clint had smirked and gone the long way round to get back to his hidey-hole, just in case. He'd figured that'd be the last time he'd see the man.

He had been wrong.

He'd seen the man half a dozen times over the past few weeks, always from a distance, and he never made a move towards Clint again. Whoever it was seemed to be biding his time, and he was taking the time and effort to let Clint know that he could take him at anytime. It rankled, but Clint couldn't shake him, and he'd tried all the tricks he knew.

He'd been crashed out in this little apartment for almost three days now, though, and he hadn't spotted his tail. He hadn't dared to move outside either, though, just watching the world through the cracked shutters. The Indian summer heat caked the sweat to his skin and his body felt tense, wired even, the way that it always did when he was forced to play a waiting game without so much as a promise of a target. He hated the trapped feeling that usually settled over him after a couple of hours.

"Stick it out, Barton, just until the heat is off," he muttered through gritted teeth. It was fine. He'd be fine. Eventually. But to get there he needed to be patient and hold, because if he left now, if the agent—because there was no doubt in Clint's mind that he was anything but SHIELD—showed up now? Clint had nowhere left to run, and Clint would be damned if he died above a dodgy Indian crack den.

Of course, that was the exact moment when movement caught his eye on the streets below. There, stepping out of the tiny grocer across the street with what looked like a pack of donuts, was the agent. Clint froze, tense and uneasy until the man tilted his head up to look directly at Clint. Their eyes met briefly, and the other man actually raised his hand to wave in Clint's direction. Clint's body jerked away from the window as panic started to course through him. He didn't hesitate to grab anything, just climbed out the back window and ran across the veranda roof until he could swing down onto the street.

As soon as he hit the ground, he took off running, not particularly caring which direction as long as it let him shake his tracker, but it was only moments before he heard the steady footsteps of pursuit.

"Barton! Stop!"

Yeah, right. As if Clint was going to listen to him. He slid around a corner and scanned the alley buildings for a way up. The guy was surprisingly quick, and out running him was proving more of a challenge than Clint had expected. He needed a way up and ideally he needed to be exposed for as short a period as possible.

He spotted an open window about halfway up the apartment building, and if Clint could just get himself up there, this agent wouldn't be able to follow. He was just starting to haul himself up onto a narrow ledge when the shot rang out in the alley and pain burst through his thigh.

He tried to pull himself up despite the wound, but his leg wouldn't hold his weight and he ended up falling back into a pile of rubbish in the alley. He groaned pitifully even as his fingers moved to his thigh to try and staunch the blood. He heard, rather than saw, the agent approach and Clint laughed bitterly.

"Well, fuck. Get it over with, will ya? Just don't miss this time."

"I assure you, Agent Barton, if I'd wanted you dead, you'd have bled out on a street in Thailand and no one would have even bothered to find out your name before your body was rolled into a ditch somewhere." Clint couldn't quite hide the slight flinch as the words hit closer than the man had probably intended. When the man knelt down next to him, Clint got his first close look at the man who'd been stalking him for weeks now.

"I'm Agent Coulson," the man said, and the first thing Clint noticed was how kind his eyes looked. Sure, he was a badass, and two minutes before he'd shot Clint in his thigh, but he hadn't wanted to, or at least that's what Clint thought. Coulson reached up and carefully unknotted his tie. Then he was looping the thin, silk strip of fabric under Clint's thigh and pushing Clint's hands away from the wound so that he could tie it tightly.

"Ow, jeez, leave it alone," Clint muttered, but he made no move to remove the tie.

"Six different countries in only a month and all without travelling through any official channels. We may need to re-evaluate your potential for undercover ops," Coulson said conversationally.

"If you're not here to kill me, why are you following me?"

"Agent Barton, I need to get you to the safe house and see to your bullet wound. If you could kindly shut your mouth for five minutes, I'd appreciate it," Coulson said as he reached one arm under Clint's shoulders and hoisted him up as if he weighed nothing. "Can you walk?"

"If you wanted me to walk, you shouldn't have shot me," Clint snarked, but he tentatively tried his weight. His leg throbbed painfully at the slightest pressure and trying to put his whole weight down made him see stars. Which basically boiled his choices down to trusting Agent Coulson or bleeding out in a seedy alley in India. "I can't put weight on it."

Coulson nodded, and between the two of them they set off at an awkward shuffle. Walking to the Agent's safe house was slow going with Clint close to a dead weight leaning against Coulson's side and struggling to at least remain upright. By the time they reached the nondescript building, Clint was sweating profusely and blood had soaked through Coulson's tie and was dripping a slow, sticky trail down his leg. He was eased onto a bed, and Clint exhaled a great sigh of relief as soon as Coulson let go of him.

"Let me have a look at your leg," Coulson ordered as he pulled out a knife and a basic first aid kit from his bag that was resting by the side of the bed. Clint jerked back instinctively when Coulson moved towards him. Coulson paused and patiently held Clint's gaze until Clint forced himself to relax.

Slowly, Coulson sat down on the bed next to Clint's leg and Clint watched him warily, wishing he could stop thinking about how vulnerable he was there, splayed out and injured within Coulson's range. He still wasn't prepared when Coulson flipped his knife around and held it out, handle first to Clint.

"It'll be easier if you cut off your jeans yourself. I doubt they're salvageable, and I can't get at the wound with denim clinging to your skin."

Clint took the knife slowly, well aware that Coulson was probably quite capable at cutting Clint's jeans off. He had a point, though, and Clint didn't really want to bleed out in some dodgy safe house in India. As he sliced through the fabric, Clint cursed the fact that he'd been wearing his favourite pair of jeans. He pulled the fabric away, and cut Coulson's tie off as well, mainly out of spite. He stared in morbid fascination as the blood seeped from the wound, so he wasn't paying attention when Coulson finished digging through his medical kit.

"Ow. What was that for?" Clint hissed as Coulson jabbed a needle into his thigh just above the open wound.

"Localised anaesthetic," Coulson said calmly and prodded at the area around the wound with a tentative finger. Clint tensed, but there was only a dull throb rather than the sharp pain he'd been expecting. Coulson cleaned the wound quickly and efficiently, inspecting it carefully for any problems. "It's a clean shot. The bullet has gone all the way through, so we won't have to try and dig it out."

"What do you want with me?" Clint demanded then, and Coulson met his gaze evenly, which only made Clint madder.

"We're taking you back in. We'd have found you sooner of course, but we thought you'd gone rogue with Mackenna. By the time we tracked him down, you'd already skipped three borders and we realised our mistake."

"Yeah, well, I was hardly going to stick around when SHIELD was sending people to kill me," Clint spat out angrily. "They weren't even subtle about it either. Amateurs. Fucking insulting."

"Ah," Phil said, and his fingers squeezed gently at Clint's thigh as the needle in his right hand broke skin. "Those men did not work for SHIELD."

"They said SHIELD was paying, and they weren't good enough to have gotten access to that kind of intel. They knew where I was going to be, who I was with, everything." Clint set his jaw and watched with a strange sense of disassociation as Coulson's steady, even stitches pulled the holes in his thigh closed.

"Mackenna had been feeding them information and embezzling SHIELD funds for months. We had our suspicions of course, but we had no evidence until North Korea. When you and Mackenna both missed the check in, we knew he'd made his move and taken you with him either as a hostage or an accomplice," Coulson informed him, and the explanation made Clint feel more at ease with the situation.

"I knew Mackenna was a dick," Clint said through his gritted teeth and hissed a little at the next jab of the needle. He needed to know one more thing, needed to know why SHIELD hadn't washed their hands of him the moment he'd abandoned his post. "Why did you come after me?"

"You're a SHIELD agent. Until you fill out the correct forms and submit them in triplicate to your official SHIELD handler, SHIELD will always 'come after you'," Coulson promised casually, as if it was absolute solid fact, and Clint blinked.

"So what you're saying is that you came after me because of paperwork?" Clint asked, trying to ignore the way that the easy promise made him feel all warm inside. His whole life, people had been leaving Clint behind. Even if he didn't believe it, it was a nice dream that SHIELD wouldn't let him go until _he_ decided to leave _them_.

"Do you have any idea the amount of paperwork I'd have to fill out for a missing agent? Tracking you down was the easier option," Coulson said with a straight face, although Clint thought he could spot a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Now shut up, Barton, unless you want your stitches to be uneven."

"Yes, sir," Clint said, but he was grinning. They sat in silence with Coulson concentrating on Clint's thigh and Clint watching tiredly as the adrenaline started to fade.

There was something about Agent Coulson's unwavering calm, his fingers quickly and competently stitching up the bullet wounds in Clint's leg, and the way that he was completely ignoring the fact that he was the one who'd shot him in the first place. He'd come to take Clint home and Clint doubted there was anything he could do that would stop him, short of handing in his resignation.

Clint was fairly sure that was the moment he'd fallen a little bit in love with Phil Coulson.

And as time passed, he only fell further.

AN: AND that's it. Hope you enjoyed reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it, and please review.


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